The Independence of Claire Part 29

Claire appeared in due time, heard what had happened, and helped Sophie to collect her various small belongings. The other teachers had already dispersed, so the ordeal of leave-taking was avoided.

"You can explain when you meet them next term!" said Claire.

"I can write my good-byes," corrected Sophie. She blinked away a few tears and said piteously, "Not much chance for me if she consults Dr Blank! He's as much discouraged as I am myself. What do you suppose he will advise now? I suppose I'll have to see him to-morrow."

"And lie awake all to-night, wondering what he will say! We'll do better than that--we'll call this very afternoon. If he is in, I'm sure he will see us, and a day saved is a day gained. I'll get a taxi."

"Another taxi! I'm ruining you, Claire. How I do hate sponging on other people!"

"Wouldn't you do it for me, if things were reversed?"

"Of course I should, but it's so much more agreeable to help than to be helped. It's ign.o.ble, I suppose, but I do hate to feel grateful!"

"Well! No one could by any possibility call you _gracious_, my dear.

Is that any consolation?" cried Claire mischievously, and Sophie was surprised into the travesty of a smile.

Dr Blank was at home, and listened to what Sophie had to tell him with grave attention. He expressed satisfaction to hear that her holidays had begun, but when questioned as to his probable report to Miss Farnborough, had no consolation to offer.

"I am afraid I must tell you honestly that you are not fit for the work.

Of course, it is quite possible that there may be a great improvement by September, but, even so, you would be r.e.t.a.r.ding your recovery by going on with such exhausting work. You must try to find something lighter."

Sophie laughed, and her laugh was not good to hear.

Claire said firmly--

"She _shall_ find it! I will find it for her. There's no need to worry about September. What we want to know is what she is to do _now_?--to- morrow--for the rest of the holidays?"

"I can't afford any more injections! They've done me no good, and they cost too much. I can't afford any more treatments. I can only take medicines. If you will give me some medicines--"

Dr Blank sat silent; tapping his desk with noiseless fingers; staring thoughtfully across the room. It was evident that he had a proposition to make; evident also that he doubted its reception.

"The best thing under the circ.u.mstances--the wisest thing," he said slowly at last, "would be for you to go into hospital as an ordinary patient. I could get you a bed in one of my own wards, where I could look after you myself, in consultation with the first men in town. You could have ma.s.sage, electricity, radium, heat baths, every appliance that could possibly be of use, and you could stay on long enough to give them a chance. It would be an ordinary ward, remember, an ordinary bed in an ordinary ward, and your neighbours would not be up to Newnham standard! You would be awakened at five in the morning, and settled for the night at eight. You would have to obey rules, which would seem to you unnecessary and tiresome. You would be, I am afraid, profoundly bored. On the other hand, you would have every attention that skill and science can devise. You would not have to pay a penny, and you would have a better chance than a d.u.c.h.ess in a ducal palace. Think it over, and let me know! If you decide to go, I'll manage the rest. Take a day--a couple of days."

"I won't take two minutes, thank you! I'll decide now. I'll go, of course, and thank you very much!"

Dr Blank beamed with satisfaction.

"Sensible girl! Sensible girl! That's right! That's right! That's very good! You are doing the right thing, and we'll all do our best for you, and your friend here will come to see you and help to make the time pa.s.s. Interesting study, you know; valuable opportunity of studying character if you look at it in that light! Why not turn it into literary capital? 'Sketches from a Hospital Bed,' 'My Neighbours in B Ward,' might make an uncommonly good series. Who knows? We may have you turning out quite a literary star!"

Sophie smiled faintly, being one of the people who would rather walk five miles than write the shortest letter. Many unexpected things happen in this world, but it was certain that her own rise to literary eminence would never swell the number! But she knew that Dr Blank was trying to cheer her, so she kept that certainty to herself.

The two girls made their way back to Sophie's lodgings, and discussed the situation over the ever-comforting tea.

"I shall have to give my landlady notice," Sophie said, looking wistfully round the little room which had been so truly a home. "If I'm to be in hospital for many weeks, it's folly to go on paying the rent; and in any case I can't afford so much now. One can't have doctor's bills, and other luxuries as well. What shall I have to take into hospital? Will they allow me to wear my own things? I don't think I _could_ get better in a calico night-dress! Pretty frills and a blue ribbon bow are as good as a tonic, but will the authorities permit?

Have you ever seen ribbon bows in a hospital bed?"

"I haven't had much experience, but I should think they would be encouraged, as a ward decoration! I hope so, I'm sure, for I mean to present you with a duck of a dressing-jacket!"

"Oh, nothing more, Claire; don't give me anything more. I shall never be able to pay you back," cried Sophie; then, in a voice of poignant suffering, she cried sharply, "Oh, Claire, my little sister! _What_ is to become of my little sister? If I am not able to help, if I need to be helped myself, her education will be interrupted, for it will be impossible to go on paying. Oh, it's too hard--too dreadful!

Everything seems so hopeless and black!"

"Yes, it does. The way seems blocked. One can't see a step ahead.

_Man's extremity_, Sophie!" cried Claire deeply--"_Man's extremity_;"

and at that a gleam of light came into Sophie's eyes.

"Yes, yes! That's just what it is. Thanks for reminding me. _G.o.d's opportunity_!" Sophie leant back in her chair, staring dreamily into s.p.a.ce, till presently something of the old bright look came back to her face. "And that," she said softly, "that's the kind of help it is sweet to accept!"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

AN INVITATION.

With Sophie in hospital, pathetically anxious for visits, with the rent of the Laburnum Road lodgings to pay whether one lived in them or not, Claire nerved herself to spend August in town, with the prospect of a September holiday to cheer her spirits. Through one of the other mistresses she had heard of an ideal farmhouse near the sea where the kindly housewife "mothered" her guests with affectionate care, where food was abundant, and cream appeared upon the table at every meal-- thick, yellow, country cream in which a spoon would stand upright.

There was also a hammock swung between two apple-trees in the orchard, a balcony outside the bedroom window, and a shabby pony-cart, with a pony who could really go. What could one wish for more?

Claire planned a lazy month, lying in that hammock, reading stories about other people, and dreaming still more thrilling romances about herself; driving the pony along country lanes, going out on to the balcony in the early morning to breathe the scent of honeysuckle, and sweetbriar, and lemon thyme, and all the dear, old-world treasures to be found in the gardens of well-conducted farmhouses. She had a craving for flowers in these hot summer days; not the meagre sixpennyworth which adorned the saffron parlour, but a wealth of blossom, bought without consideration of cost. And one day, with the unexpectedness of a fairy gift, her wish was fulfilled.

It lay on the table when she returned from school--a long cardboard box bearing the name of a celebrated West End florist, the word "fragile"

marked on the lid, and inside were roses, magnificent, half-opened roses with the dew still on their leaves, the fat green stalks nearly a yard in length--dozens of roses of every colour and shade, from the l.u.s.trous whiteness of Frau Carl to the purple blackness of Prince Camille.

Claire gathered them in her arms, unconscious of the charming picture which she made, in her simple blue lawn dress, with her glowing face rising over the riot of colour, gathered them in a great handful, and ran swiftly upstairs.

There was no card inside the box, no message of any kind, but her heart knew no doubt as to the sender, and she dare not face the fire of Mary Rhodes' cross-examination. In the days of daffodils she had treated herself to a high green column of a vase, which was an ideal receptacle for the present treasures. When it was filled there were still nearly half the number waiting for a home, so these were plunged deep into the ewer until the morrow, when they would be taken to Sophie in hospital.

The little room was filled with beauty and fragrance, and Claire knew moments of unclouded happiness as she looked around.

Presently she extracted two roses from the rest, ran downstairs to collect box, paper and string, and handed rubbish and roses together to Lizzie at the top of the kitchen stairs. Lizzie received her share of the treasures with dignity, cut off the giant stems, which she considered straggly and out of place, and crammed the two heads into a brown cream-jug, the which she deposited on a sunny window-ledge.

Claire saw them as she next left the house and shrugged resignedly, for she was beginning to learn the lesson which many of us take a lifetime to master, the wisdom of allowing people to enjoy themselves in their own fashion!

The Willoughbys were leaving town in mid July, _en route_ for Switzerland, and later on for a Scottish shooting-box. Claire received an invitation to tea on their last Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and arrived to find the drawing-room full of visitors.

Malcolm Heward was a.s.sisting Janet at the tea-table, but with this exception she recognised no one in the room, and was thankful for the attentions of Master Reginald, who hailed her as an old acquaintance, and reproached her loudly for not turning up at "Lord's."

"I looked out for you, you know!" he said impressively, and Claire was the more gratified by his remembrance because Malcolm Heward had required a second introduction to awaken his recollection. It is no doubt gratifying to the object of his devotion when a man remains blind to every other member of her s.e.x, but the other members may feel a natural objection to be so ignored! Claire was annoyed by the necessity of that second introduction, and as a consequence made herself so fascinating to the boy who _had_ remembered, that he hugged the sweet delusion that she considered him a man, and was seriously smitten by his charms. He waited upon her with a.s.siduity, gave her exclusive tips as to her choice of cakes, and recited the latest funny stories which were already stale in his own circles, but which came to her ears with agreeable freshness.

It was while the two were laughing together over an unexpected _denouement_ that the departure of two guests left a s.p.a.ce across which Claire could see a far corner of the room, and perceived that a lady seated on a sofa had raised a tortoisesh.e.l.l-bound _lorgnon_, to stare across at herself. She was an elderly lady, and at first sight her appearance awoke no recollection. She was just a grey-haired woman, attired in handsome black, in no way differentiated from one or two other visitors of the same age: even when the _lorgnon_ dropped to her side, disclosing a pair of very bright, very quizzical grey eyes, it was a full moment before Claire realised that this was her acquaintance of that first eventful journey to London, none other than Mrs Fanshawe herself. There she sat, smiling, complacent, _grande dame_ as ever, nodding with an air of mingled friendliness and patronage, laying one hand on the vacant place by her side, with an action which was obviously significant. Claire chose, however, to ignore the invitation, and after a grave bow of acknowledgment, turned back to Reginald, keeping her eyes resolutely averted from that far corner. It was Mrs Fanshawe herself who was finally compelled to cross the room to make her greetings.

"Miss Gifford! Surely it is Miss Gifford? Mrs Willoughby told me she expected you this afternoon. And how are you, my dear, after this long time?"

The tone was all that was cordial and friendly.

Claire stood up, tall and stately, and extended a perfectly gloved hand.

It was not in human nature to be perfectly natural at that moment.

Sub-consciously she was aware that, as the Americans would express it, she was "putting on frills"; sub-consciously she was amused at the artificiality of her own voice.

"Quite well, thank you. Exceedingly flourishing!"

"You look it," Mrs Fanshawe said, and seated herself ruthlessly in Reginald's chair. "Tell me all about it! You were going to work, weren't you? Some new-fangled idea of being independent. So ridiculous for a pretty girl! And you've had--how long--nearly a year? Haven't got tired of it yet, by any chance?"

"Oh, yes; quite often I feel very tired, but I should have felt the same about pleasuring, and work is more worth while. It has been very interesting. I have learnt a great deal."