The Independence of Claire Part 17

"I--don't--know!" she said slowly. "Sometimes I think it's just what I should like. I have a great deal, but you have more. Look at our two faces in that gla.s.s!"

She drew Claire round so that they stood in front of the Chippendale mirror over the mantelpiece, from whence a row of pictured faces stared back, as though stolidly sitting in judgment. The clear tints of Claire's skin made Janet look sallow and faded, the dark curve of her eyebrows under the sweep of gold brown hair, the red lips and deeply cleft chin, made Janet's indeterminate features look insignificant, the brown eyes seemed the only definite feature in her face, and they were clouded with depression.

"Look at yourself," she said deeply, "and look at me!"

It was an awkward moment, and Claire shrugged uncomfortably.

"But my face is--it has to be--my fortune!"

"Oh, beauty! I wasn't thinking of beauty," Janet cried unexpectedly.

"You are very pretty, of course, but heaps of girls are pretty. It's something more--I suppose it is what is called Charm. When people see you once, they remember you; they want to see you again. You make a place for yourself. I am one in a crowd. People like me well enough when they are with me, but--they forget!"

"And I never meet anyone to remember. We're two love-lorn damsels, and this is Merrie Christmas. Would you have thought it?" cried Claire, and that wrought the desired effect, for Janet awoke with a shock to her responsibilities as hostess, and led the way downstairs to join the rest of the house-party.

The rest of the day was spent in conventional English fashion in a praiseworthy effort to sustain spirits at concert pitch, and keep up a continuous flow of gaiety, a mountainous task when guests are brought together by claims of birth, without consideration as to suitability!

Mrs Willoughby's party consisted of four distinct elements; there were Great-aunt Jane, and second cousin William, two octogenarians, who for health's sake dined early all the year round, and sipped a cup of Benger at eight, but who dauntlessly tackled sausages and plum pudding on Christmas Day, and suffered for it for a week to come. There were Mr and Mrs Willoughby, and two cousin husbands and their wives, and a spinster aunt to represent the next generation, then came sweet and twenty as represented by Janet and Claire, followed by Reginald of Eton, on whom they looked down as a mere boy, the while he in his turn disdained to notice the advances of two curly-headed cousins of nine and ten! Claire enjoyed herself because it was in her nature to enjoy, and it felt good to be once more in a beautiful, well-appointed home, among friends; but driving home in the taxi she yawned persistently from one door to the other. It was dreadfully tiring work being pleasant at the same time to the whole five ages of man!

With the opening of the door of the saffron parlour came an end of sleepiness, for on the table lay a square parcel, and the parcel bore the same stamp, the same markings which she had seen duplicated in Janet Willoughby's boudoir! Red as a rose was Claire as she stared at the bold masculine writing of the address, tore open the wrappings of the box, and drew forth a carved cuckoo clock with the well-known chalet roof and long pendulum and chains. It was an exquisite specimen of its kind, the best that could be obtained, but for the moment Claire had no attention to spare for the gift itself; she was absorbed in hunting among the paper and straw for a card which should settle the ident.i.ty of the donor. Not a line was to be found. Pink deepened to crimson on Claire's cheeks.

"Who in the world could have sent it? Who _could_ it be?" She played at bewilderment, but in spite of herself the dimples dipped. "Now how in the world has he found out my address?" asked Claire of herself.

For the next week Claire experienced the sensation of being "alone in London." From the evening of Christmas Day until Cecil returned on January 2nd, not one friendly word did she hear; she walked abroad among a crowd of unknown faces, she returned to a solitary room.

Miss Farnborough was spending the Christmas abroad; the other mistresses were either visiting or entertaining relations, the ladies of the committee were presumably making merry each in her own sphere. It was no one's business to look after the new member of the staff out of term time, and no one troubled to make it her business.

The only friendly sound which reached Claire's ears during those days was the striking of the cuckoo clock, as a minute before every hour a sliding door flew open, and a little brown bird popped out and piped the due number of cuckoos in a clear, sweet note. Claire loved that little bird; the sight of him brought a warmth to her heart, which was as sunshine lighting up the grey winter days. Someone had remembered!

Someone had cared! In the midst of a merry holiday, time and thought had been spared for her benefit.

The presence of the cuckoo clock preserved Claire from personal suffering, but during that silent week there was borne in upon her a realisation of the loneliness of the great city which was never obliterated. A girl like herself, coming to London without introductions, might lead this desert life, not for a week alone, but for _years_! Her youth might fade, might pa.s.s away, she might grow middle-aged and old, and still pa.s.s to and fro through crowded street, unnoted, uncared for, unknown beyond the boundaries of the schoolroom or the office walls. A working-woman was as a rule too tired and too poor to join societies, or take part in social work which would lead to the making of friends; she was dependent on the thoughtfulness of her leisured sisters, and the leisured sisters were too apt to forget. They invited their own well-off friends, exhausted themselves in organising entertainments which were often regarded as bores pure and simple, and cast no thought to the lonely women sitting night after night in lodging-house parlours. "If I am ever rich--if I ever have a home, I'll remember!" Claire vowed to herself. "I'll take a little trouble, and _find out_! I couldn't do a hundredth or a thousandth part of what ought to be done, but I'd do my share!" Cecil announced her return for the evening of January 2nd, and remindful of the depressing influence of her own arrival, Claire exerted herself to make the room look as homelike as possible, and arranged a dainty little meal on a table spread with a clean cloth and decorated with a bowl of holly and Christmas roses. At the first sound of Cecil's voice she ran out into the hall, hugged her warmly, and relieved her of a bundle of packages of all sorts and sizes.

"You look a real Mother Christmas hidden behind parcels. What are they all? Trophies? You _have_ come off well! It is lovely to see you back. If you'd stayed away the whole time I think I should have grown dumb. My tongue would have withered from sheer lack of use. I never realised before how much I love to talk. I do hope you feel sociable.

I want to talk and talk for hours at a time, and to hear _you_ talk, too."

"Even to grumble?"

Claire grinned eloquently.

"Oh, well--if you _must_, but it would be rather mean, wouldn't it, after a holiday, and when I've got everything so nice? I am driven to praise myself, because _you_ take no notice."

"You have given me no time. You chatter so that no one else can get in a word." Cecil took off hat and gloves, and threw them down on the sofa. "I must say your looks don't pity you. You look as if you had been enjoying yourself all right. That kettle's boiling! I'm dying for a cup of tea! Let's have it at once, and talk comfortably." She seated herself by the table, and helped herself to a b.u.t.tered scone. "What did you do on Christmas Day?"

"The Willoughbys asked me. I went to church with them, and stayed until eleven."

"Anything going on, or just the ordinary family frumps?"

Claire laughed.

"n.o.body but relations and my fascinating self; but you needn't be so blighting. I enjoyed every moment, and they were angelically kind.

Janet was like an old friend."

"Did she give you a present?"

"Yes, she did. Half a dozen pairs of gloves."

"The wrong size, of course! They always are!"

"No, my pessimist, they were not! She had diagnosed me as a six and a half, and six and a half I am, so all was peace and joy. I put on a new pair the next day when I went out for a const.i.tutional. It was quite a tonic. Gloves are much cheaper abroad, and I never wore a shabby pair in my life until this winter. It's been one of the things I've hated most."

"Six pairs will soon go," said Cecil; "I prefer to have things that last. Oh, by the way, you addressed a parcel. How did it come? Was it left at the door?"

Instinctively Claire busied herself over the tea-tray. She had a feeling that Cecil would rather be un.o.bserved; she was also afraid that her own expression might betray too much.

"Oh no, he called. When I came in after morning church on Sunday, Lizzie said that a gentleman was waiting. It was Major Carew. He asked me if I would address the parcel and send it on."

Silence. Claire bent over the tea-tray, but she knew without looking that Cecil's face had fallen into the cold set lines which she had seen times and again, when things had gone wrong; she knew that when she spoke again the coldness would be in her voice, but her own conscience was clear. She had done nothing to offend.

"Really! That's curious. _Waiting_, you say? You didn't ask him in?

What did he say?"

"He said, 'Miss Gifford, I presume. I have called to ask if you will be kind enough to address a small parcel for Miss Rhodes.' I said, 'Wouldn't it be better if I gave you her address?' He said, 'I should prefer if you wrote it yourself.' I said, 'I will do so with pleasure.

Good morning.' He said, 'Good morning.' He then took up his hat and departed. He showed himself out, and shut the door after him. I went upstairs and took off my things."

"He didn't stay long then?"

"About three minutes, I should say, perhaps four; I can't tell you to a second, unfortunately. I didn't look at the clock."

Cecil laughed, half apologetic, half relieved.

"Oh, well, you needn't be sarcastic. Naturally I wanted to know. I couldn't make it out when I saw your writing, for you had given me the scarf--I'm going to buy your present at the sales, by the way--but, of course, when I took off the paper, there was a message inside. I was expecting that present."

"I hope it was very nice?"

"Oh, yes--yes! A brooch," Cecil said carelessly. Claire hoped it was not the insignificant little golden bar which she was wearing at the moment, but she had never seen it before, and Cecil's jewellery was of the most limited description. She determined to ask no more questions on the subject, since evidently none were desired. Cecil helped herself to a second scone, and asked suddenly--

"Why didn't he sit down?"

"It wasn't necessary, was it? He gave his message, and then there was nothing to say. I wasn't going to make conversation."

"You didn't like him!" cried Cecil, but she laughed as she spoke, and her face relaxed; it was evident that she was more pleased than disconcerted at her friend's lack of approval. "You're no good at hiding your feelings, Claire; your voice gives you away as well as your face. _Why_ didn't you like Major Carew? I suppose you don't deny that he is a handsome man?"

"I don't think I care about handsome men," said Claire, seeing before her a clean-shaven face which could lay no claims to beauty, but in comparison with which the Major's coa.r.s.e good looks were abhorrent in her eyes.

"Prefer men plain, I suppose? Well, I don't; I shouldn't like Frank half so much, if he didn't look so big and imposing. And other people admire him, too. People stare at him as we pa.s.s. I suppose you have guessed that it is with him that I've been going out? There didn't seem any need to speak of it before, but during the rest of the holidays you might expect me to go about with you, and sometimes--often, I hope, I'll be engaged, so it's just as well to explain. We can do things together in the morning, but naturally--"

"Yes, of course; I quite understand. Don't worry about me, Cecil. I'd love you to have a good time. Are you--are you engaged to him, dear?"

There was in her voice that soft, almost awed note with which an unengaged girl regards a companion who has actually plighted her troth.

Cecil softened at the sound.