The Independence of Claire Part 8

"Quite so."

"Well?"

"Well, my dear, there's only one thing to be said--they _don't_! As I told you before, there's a prejudice against mistresses. They give us credit for being clever, and cultivated, and hard-working; but they never grasp the fact that we are human girls, who would very much enjoy being frivolous for a change. I _have_ been asked out to tea at rare intervals, and the mothers have apologised for the ordinary conversation, and laboriously switched it on to books. I didn't want to talk books. I wanted to discuss hats and dresses, and fas.h.i.+onable intelligence, and sing comic songs, and play puss-in-the-corner, and be generally giddy and riotous; but my presence cast a wet blanket over the whole party, and we discussed Science and Art. Now I'm old and resigned, but it's hard on the new hands. I think it was rather brutal of your mother to let you come to London without taking the trouble of getting _some_ introductions. Don't mind me saying so, do you?"

Claire smiled feebly.

"You have said it, anyhow! I know it must seem unkind to anyone who does not know mother. She's really the kindest person in the world, but she's very easy-going, and apt to believe that everything will happen just as she wishes. She felt quite sure that Miss Farnborough and the staff would supply me with a whirl of gaiety. There _was_ one lady, who said she would write to a friend--"

Cecil groaned deeply.

"I know that friend. She comes from Sheffield. A dear kind friend who would love to have you out on holidays. A friend who takes a special interest in school-mistresses. A friend who gives such nice inter-est- ing parties, and would certainly send you a card if she knew your address. Was that it, my dear--was that the kind of friend?"

Cecil chuckled with triumph at the sight of Claire's lengthening jaw.

In truth there seemed something uncanny in so accurate a reproduction of Mrs Fanshawe's description. Was there, indeed, no such person? Did she exist purely as a dummy figure, to be dangled before the eyes of credulous beginners? Claire sighed, and buried her last lingering hope; and at that very moment the postman's rap sounded at the door, and a square white envelope was handed in, addressed in feminine handwriting to Miss Claire Gifford.

Claire tore it open, pulled forth a white card, gasped and flushed, and tossed it across the table with a whoop of triumph.

"Raven, look at that! What do you think now of your melancholy croaks?"

Cecil picked up the card, inscribed with the orthodox printed lines, beneath which a few words had been written.

Mrs Willoughby, At Home May 26th, 9 p.m.

Music.

"Have just received your address from Mrs Fanshawe. Shall hope to see you to-morrow.--E.B.W."

Cecil screwed up her face in disparagement.

"Nine o'clock. Mayfair. That means a taxi both ways. Can't arrive at a house like that in a mackintosh, with your shoes in a bag. Much wiser to refuse. It will only unsettle you, and make you unfit for work.

She's done the polite thing for once, because she was asked, but she'll never do it again. I've been through it myself, and I know the ropes.

A woman like that has hundreds of friends; why should she bother about you? You'll never be asked again."

But at that Claire laughed, and beat her hand on the table.

"But I say I shall! I say I'll be asked _often_! I don't care if you've had a hundred experiences, mine shall be different. She has asked me once; now, as the Yankees say, 'it's up to me' to do the rest.

I'll make up my mind to make her _want_ to ask me!"

CHAPTER SEVEN.

TRANSFORMATION OF CECIL.

In the days to come when Claire looked back and reviewed the course of events which followed, she realised that Mrs Willoughby's invitation had been a starting-point from which to date happenings to others as well as herself. It was, for instance, on the morning after its arrival that Cecil's chronic discontent reached an acute stage. She appeared at breakfast with a clouded face, grumbled incessantly throughout the meal, and snapped at everything Claire said, until the latter was provoked into snapping in return. In the old days of idleness Claire had been noted for the sunny sweetness of her disposition, but she was already discovering that teaching lays a severe strain on the nerves, and at the end of a week's work endurance seemed at its lowest ebb. So, when her soft answers met rebuff after rebuff, she began to grumble in her turn, and to give back as good as she got.

"Really, Cecil, I am exceedingly sorry that your form is so stupid, and your work so hard, but I am neither a pupil nor a chief, so I fail to see where my responsibility comes in. Wouldn't it be better if you interviewed Miss Farnborough instead of me?"

It was the first time that Claire had answered sharply, and for the moment surprise held Cecil dumb. Then the colour flamed into her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with anger. Though forbearance had failed to soothe her, opposition evidently added fuel to the fire.

"Miss Farnborough!" she repeated jeeringly. "What does Miss Farnborough care for the welfare of her mistresses, so long as they grind through their daily tasks? It is the pupils she thinks about, not us. The pupils who are to be pampered and considered, and studied, and amused in school and out. They have to have games in summer, and a mistress has to give up her spare time to watch the pretty dears to see that they don't get into trouble; and they must have parties, and concerts, and silly entertainments in winter, with some poor wretch of a mistress to do all the work so that they may enjoy the fun. Miss Farnborough is an exemplary Head so far as her scholars are concerned, but what does she do for her mistresses? I ask you, does she do anything at all?"

Claire considered, and was silent. Her first term was nearly over, and she could not truthfully say that the Head had taken any concern for her as an individual who might be expected to feel some interest in life beyond the school door. It is true that almost every day brought the two in contact for the exchange of a few words which, if strictly on business, were always pleasant and kindly, but except for the one invitation to tea on the day before work began, they had never met out of school hours. Claire was a stranger in London, yet the Head had never inquired as to her leisure hours, never invited her to her house, or offered, her an introduction to friends, never even engaged the sympathies of other mistresses on her behalf. Claire had expected a very different treatment, and had struggled against a sense of injury, but she would not acknowledge as much in words.

"I suppose Miss Farnborough is even more tired than we are. She has a tremendous amount of responsibility. And she has a brother and sister at home. Perhaps they object to an incursion of school in free hours."

"Then she ought to leave them, and live where she can do her duty without interference. After all mistresses are girls, too, not very much older than some of the pupils when we begin work; it's inhuman to take _no_ interest in our welfare. It wouldn't kill a Head to give up a night a month to ask us to meet possible friends, or to write a few letters of introduction. You agree with me in your heart, so it's no use pretending. It's a moral obligation, if it isn't legal, and I say part of the responsibility is hers if things go wrong. It's inhuman to leave a young girl alone in lodgings without even troubling to inquire if she has anywhere to go in her leisure hours. But it's the same tale all round. n.o.body thinks. n.o.body cares. I've gone to the same church for three years, and not a soul has spoken to me all that time. I've no time to give to Church work, and the seats are free, so there's no way of getting into touch. I don't suppose any one has ever noticed the shabby school-mistress in her shabby blue serge."

Suddenly Mary Rhodes thrust back her chair, and rising impetuously began to storm up and down the room.

"Oh, I'm tired, I'm tired of this second-hand life. Living in other people's houses, teaching other people's children, obeying other people's orders. I'm sick of it. I can't stand it a moment longer.

I'd rather take any risk to be out of it. After all, what could be worse? Any sort of life lived on one's own must be better than this.

Nearly twelve years of it--and if I have twenty more, what's the end?

What is there to look forward to? Slow starvation in a bed-sitting- room, for perhaps thirty years. I won't do it, I won't! I've had enough. Now I shall choose for myself!"

Like a whirlwind she dashed out of the room, and Claire put her elbow on the table and leant her head on her hands, feeling shaken, and discouraged, and oppressed. For the first time a doubt entered her mind as to whether she could continue to live with Mary Rhodes. In her brighter modes there was much that was attractive in her personality, but to live with a chronic grumbler sapped one's own powers of resistance. Claire felt that for the sake of her own happiness and efficiency it would be wiser to make a change, but her heart sank at the thought of making a fresh start, of perhaps having to live alone with no one to speak to in the long evenings. The life of a bachelor girl made little appeal at that moment. Liberty seemed dearly bought at the price of companions.h.i.+p.

Claire spent the morning writing to her mother and reading over the series of happy letters which had reached her week after week. Mrs Judge was in radiant spirits, delighted with the conditions of her new life, full of praise of her husband and the many friends to whom she had been introduced. Three-fourths of the letter were taken up with descriptions of her own gay doings, the remaining fourth with optimistic remarks on her daughter's life. How delightful to share rooms with another girl! What a nice break to have every Sat.u.r.day and Sunday free!

What economical rooms! Claire must feel quite rich. What fun to have the girls so devoted!

Claire made an expressive grimace as she read that "quite rich." This last week she had been obliged to buy new gloves, and to have her boots mended. A new umbrella had been torn by the carelessness with which another teacher had thrust her own into the crowded stand, and one night she had been seized with a longing for a dainty well-cooked meal, and had recklessly stood treat at a restaurant. She did not feel at all "rich" as she made up the week's account, and reflected that next week the expense of driving to Mrs Willoughby's "At Home" would again swell up the total of these exasperating "extras" which made such havoc of advance calculations.

Cecil did not appear until lunch was on the table, when she flung the door wide open and marched in with an air of bravado, as if wanting her companion to stare at once and get over it. It would have been impossible not to stare, for the change in her appearance was positively startling to behold. Her dark hair was waved and fas.h.i.+onably coiffed.

Her best coat and skirt had been embellished with frills of lace at neck and sleeves, a pretty little waistcoat had been manufactured out of a length of blue ribbon and a few paste b.u.t.tons, while a blue feather necklet had been promoted a step higher, and encircled an old straw hat.

The ribbon bow at the end of the boa exactly matched the shade of the waistcoat, and was c.o.c.ked up at a daring angle, while a becoming new veil and a pair of immaculate new gloves added still further to the effect.

Claire had always suspected that Cecil could be pretty if she chose to take the trouble, and now she knew it for a fact. It was difficult to realise that this well-groomed-looking girl, with the bright eyes and softly-flushed cheeks, could really be the same person as the frumpy- looking individual who every morning hurried along the street.

Involuntarily Claire threw up her hands; involuntarily she cried aloud in delight "Cheers! Cheers! How do you do, Cecil? Welcome home, Cecil!--the real Cecil! How pretty you are, Cecil! How well that blue suits you! Don't dare to go back to your dull navy and black. I shall insist that you always wear blue. I feel quite proud of having such a fine lady to lunch. You are going to have lunch, aren't you? Why those gloves and veil?"

"Oh, well--I'm not hungry. I'll have some coffee. I may have lunch in town." Cecil was plainly embarra.s.sed under her companion's scrutiny.

She pushed up her veil, so that it rested in a little ridge across her nose, craned forward her head, sipping her coffee with exaggerated care, so that no drop should fall on her lacy frills.

Claire longed to ask a dozen questions, but something in Cecil's manner held her at bay, and she contented herself with one inquiry--

"What time will you be home?"

Cecil shrugged her shoulders.

"Don't know. Perhaps not till late." She was silent for a moment, then added with sudden bitterness, "You are not the _only_ person who has invitations. If I chose, I could go out every Sat.u.r.day."

"Then why on earth are you always grumbling about your loneliness?"

thought Claire swiftly, but she did not put the thought into words.

After the warmth of her own welcome, a kinder response was surely her due; she was angry, and would not condescend to reply.

The meal was finished in silence, but when Cecil rose to depart, the usual compunction seized her in its grip. She stood arranging her veil before the mirror over the mantelpiece, uttering the usual interjectory expressions of regret.

"Sorry, Claire. I'm a wretch. You must hate me. I ought to be shot.

Nice Sat.u.r.day morning I've given you! What are you going to do this afternoon?"