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. Nobody thinks. Nobody 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 companionship.
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 Saturday 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 fashionably 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 buttons, 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 cocked 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 embarrassed 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 Saturday."
"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 Saturday morning I've given you! What are you going to do this
afternoon?"
Claire's eyes turned towards the window with an expression sad to see on
so young a face--an imprisoned look. Her voice seemed to lose all its
timbre as she replied in one flat dreary word--
"Nothing!"
A spasm of irresolution passed across Cecil's face. For a moment she
looked as if she were about to throw aside her own project and cast in
her lot with her friend's. Then her face hardened, and she turned
towards the door.
"Why not call for Sophie Blake, and see if she will go a walk? She
asked you once before."
With that she was gone, and Claire was left to consider the proposition.
Sophie Blake, the Games mistress, was the single member of the staff
who had shown any disposition towards real friendship, though the
intimacy was so far confined to one afternoon's walk, and an occasional
chat in the dinner hour, but this afternoon the thought of her merry
smile acted as an irresistible magnet. Claire ran upstairs to get
ready, in a panic lest she might arrive at Sophie's lodgings to find she
had already gone out for the afternoon. Cecil had hinted that she might
not return until late, and suddenly it seemed unbearable to spend the
rest of the day in solitude. Restlessness was in the air, first the
pleasurable restlessness caused by the receipt of Mrs Willoughby's
invitation, then the disagreeable restlessness caused by Cecil's erratic
behaviour. As she hurried through the streets towards Sophie Blake's
lodgings, Claire pondered over the mystery of this sudden development on
Cecil's part. Where was she going? Whom was she going to see? Why
declare with one breath that she was without a friend, and with the next
that if she chose she might accept invitations every week? What special
reason had to-day inspired such unusual care in her appearance?
Sophie was at home. Lonely Claire felt quite a throb of relief as she
heard the welcome words. She entered the oil-clothed passage and was
shown into a small, very warm, very untidy front parlour wherein stood
Sophie herself, staring with widened eyes at the opening door.
"Oh, it's _you_!" she cried. "What a fright you gave me! I couldn't
think _who_ it could be. Come in! Sit down! Can you find a free
chair? Saturday is my work day. I've been darning stockings, and
trimming a hat, and ironing a blouse, and washing lace, and writing
letters all in a rush. I love a muddle on Saturdays. It's such a
change after routine all the week. What do you think of the hat? Seven
and sixpence, all told. I flatter myself it looks worth every penny of
ten. Don't pull down that cloth. The iron's underneath. Be careful of
that table! The ink-pot's somewhere about. How sweet of you to call!
I'll clear this muddle away and then we can talk ... Oh, my arm!"
"What's the matter with the arm?"
Sophie shrugged carelessly.
"Rheumatism, my dear. Cheerful, isn't it, for a gym. mistress? It's
been giving me fits all the week."
"The east winds, I suppose. I know they make rheumatism worse."
"They do. So does damp. So does snow. So does fog. So does cold. So
does heat. If you could tell me of anything that makes it _better_, I'd
be obliged. Bother rheumatism! Don't let's talk of it... It's
Saturday, my dear. I never think of disagreeables on Saturday. Where's
Miss Rhodes this afternoon?"
"I don't know. She made herself look very nice and smart--she can be
very nice-looking when she likes!--and went out for the day."
"Humph!" Sophie pursed her lips and contracted her brows as if in
consideration of a knotty point. "She was awfully pretty when I came to
the school ten years ago. And quite jolly and bright. You wouldn't
know her for the same girl. She's a worrier, of course, but it's more
than that. Something happened about six years ago, which took the
starch out of her once for all. A love affair, I expect. Perhaps she's
told you... I'm not fishing, and it's not my business, but I'm sorry
for the poor thing, and I was sorry for you when I heard you were going
to share her room. She can't be the most cheerful companion in the
world!"
"Oh, she's quite lively at times," Claire said loyally, "and very
appreciative. I'm fond of her, you know, but I wish she didn't grumble
quite so much." She looked round the parlour, which was at once bigger
and better furnished than the joint apartment in Laburnum Crescent, and
seized upon an opportunity of changing the subject. "You have a very
nice room."
Sophie Blake looked round with an air half proud, half guilty.
"Y-es. Too nice. I've no business to spend so much, but I simply can't
stand those dreadful cheap houses. People are always fussing and
telling one to save up for old age. I think it matters far more to have
things nice in one's youth. I get a hundred and thirty a year, and have
to keep myself all the year round and help to educate a young sister.
We are orphans, and the grown-ups have to keep her between us. I
couldn't save if I wanted to, so what's the use of worrying? I don't
care very much what happens after fifty-five. Perhaps I shall be
married. Perhaps I shall be dead. Perhaps some nice kind millionaire
will have taken a fancy to me, and left me a fortune. If the worst
comes to the worst, I'll go into a home for decayed gentlewomen and knit
stockings--no, not stockings, I should never be able to turn the heels--
long armlet things, like mittens, without the thumbs. Look here. Where
shall we go? Isn't it a shame that all the nice shops close early on
Saturday? We might have had such sport walking along Knightsbridge,
choosing what we'd like best from every window. Have you ever done
that? It's ripping fun. What about Museums? Do you like Museums?
Rather cold for the feet, don't you think? What can we do that's warm
and interesting, and exciting, and doesn't cost more than
eighteenpence?"
Claire laughed gleefully, not at the thought of the eighteenpenny
restriction, but from pure joy at finding a companion who could face
life with a smile, and find enjoyment from such simple means as
imaginary purchases from shop windows. Oh, the blessed effect of a
cheerful spirit! How inspiriting it was after the constant douche of
discouragement from which she had suffered for the last nine weeks!
"Oh, bother eighteenpence! This is my treat, and we are going to enjoy
ourselves, or know the reason why. I've got a lot of money in the bank,
and I'm just in the mood to spend. We'll go to the Queen's Hall, and
then on to have tea in a restaurant. You would like to hear some
music?"
"So long as it is not a chorus of female voices--I _should_! I'm a
trifle fed up with female voices," cried Sophie gaily. She picked up
her newly-trimmed hat from the table and caressed it fondly. "Come
along, darling. You're going to make your _debut_!"