It was almost worth while leading a life of all work and no play for six
weeks on end, for the sheer delight of being frivolous once more; of
dressing oneself in one's prettiest frock, drawing on filmy silk
stockings and golden shoes, clasping a pearl necklace round a white
throat and cocking a feathery aigrette at just the right angle among
coppery swathes of hair. No single detail was wanting to complete the
whole, for in the old careless days Claire's garments had been purchased
with a lavish hand, the only anxiety being to secure the most becoming
specimen of its kind. There were long crinkly gloves, and a lace
handkerchief, and a fan composed of curling feathers and mother-of-pearl
sticks, and a dainty bag hanging by golden cords, and a cloak of the
newest shape, composed of layers of different-tinted chiffons, which
looked more like a cloud at sunset than a garment manufactured by human
hands and supposed to be of use!
Claire tilted her little mirror to an acute angle, gave a little skip of
delight as she surveyed the completed whole, and then whirled down the
narrow staircase, a flying mist of draperies, through which the little
gold-clad feet gleamed in and out. She whirled into the sitting-room,
where the solitary lamp stood on the table, and Cecil lay on the humpy
green plush sofa reading a novel from the Free Library. She put down
the book and stared with wide eyes as Claire gave an extra whirl for her
benefit, and cried jubilantly--
"Admire me! Admire me! I'm dying to be admired! Don't I look fine,
and smart, and unsuitable! Will any one in the world mistake me for a
High School-mistress!"
Cecil rose from the sofa, and made a solemn tour of inspection.
Obviously she was impressed, obviously she admired, obviously also she
found something startling in her inspection. There was pure feminine
interest in the manner in which she fingered each delicate fabric in
turn, there was pure feminine kindness in the little pat on the arm
which announced the close of the inspection.
"My dear, it's ripping! Rich and rare isn't in it. You look a dream.
Poor kiddie! If this is the sort of thing you've been used to, it's
been harder for you than I thought! Yes, horribly unsuitable, and when
it's worn-out, you'll never be able to have another like it. White
ponge will be your next effort."
"Bless your heart, I've three others just as fine, and these skimpy
skirts last for an age. No chance of any one planting a great foot on
the folds and tearing them to ribbons as in the old days. There _are_
no folds to tread on."
But Cecil as usual was ready with her croak.
"Next year," she said darkly, "there will be flounces. Before you have
a chance of wearing your four dresses, everybody will be fussy and
frilly, and they'll be hopelessly out of date."
"Then I'll cut up two and turn them into flounces to fuss out the
others!" cried Claire, the optimist, and gave another caper from sheer
lightness of heart. "How do you like my feet?"
"I suppose you mean shoes. A pretty price you paid for those. I'm sure
they're too tight!"
"Boats, my dear, boats! I've had to put in a sole. Didn't you know my
feet were so small? How do you like my cloak? It's meant to look like
a cloud. Layers of blue, pink and grey, `superimposed,' as the fashion
papers have it. Or should you say it was more like an opal?"
"No, I should not. Neither one nor the other. Considered as a cloak
for a foggy November evening, I should call it a delusion and a fraud.
You'll get a chill. I've a Shetland shawl. I'll lend it to you to wrap
round your shoulders."
"No, you won't!" Claire cried defiantly. "Shetland shawl indeed! Who
ever heard of a girl of twenty-one in a Shetland shawl? I'm going to a
party, my dear. The joy of that thought would keep me warm through a
dozen fogs."
"You'll have to come back from the party, however, and you mayn't feel
so jubilant then. It's not too exciting when you don't know a soul, and
sit on one seat all evening. I knew a girl who went to a big crush and
didn't even get a cup of coffee. Nobody asked her to go down."
Claire swept her cloak to one side, and sat down on a chair facing the
sofa, her white gloves clasped on her knee, the embroidered bag hanging
by its golden cords to the tip of the golden slippers. She fixed her
eyes steadily on her companion, and there was in them a spark of anger,
before which Cecil had the grace to flush.
"Sorry! Really I am sorry--"
"`Repentance is to _leave_
The sins we loved before,
And show that we in earnest grieve
By doing so No More!'"
quoted Claire sternly. "Really, Cecil, you are the champion wet blanket
of your age. It is too bad. I have to do all the perking up, and you
can't even let me go to a party without damping my ardour. I was
thinking it over the other night, and I've hit on a promising plan. I'm
going to allow you a grumble day a week--but only one. On that day you
can grumble as much as ever you like, from the moment you get up till
the moment you go to bed. You'll be within your rights, and I shall not
complain. I'll have my own day, too, when you can find out what it
feels like to listen, but won't be allowed to say a word in return. For
the rest of the week you'll just have to grin and bear it. You won't be
allowed a single growl."
Cecil knitted her brows, and looked ashamed and uncomfortable, as she
invariably did when taxed with her besetting sin. Claire's charge on
mental poisoning had struck home, and she had honestly determined to
turn over a new leaf; but the habit had been indulged too long to be
easily abandoned. Unconsciously, as it were, disparaging remarks flowed
from her lips, combined with a steady string of objections, adverse
criticisms, and presentiments of darkness and gloom. At the present
moment she felt a little startled to realise how firmly the habit was
established, and the proposal of a licenced grumble day held out some
promise of a cure.
"Then I'll have Monday!" she cried briskly. "I am always in a bad
temper on Mondays, so I shall be able to make the most of my chance."
She was silent for a moment considering the prospect, then was struck
with a sudden thought. "But now and then I _do_ have a nice week-end,
and then I shouldn't want to grumble at all. I suppose I could change
the day?"
There was a ring of triumph in Claire's laugh.
"Not you! My dear girl, that's just what I am counting upon! Sometimes
the sun will shine, sometimes you'll get a nice letter, sometimes the
girls will be intelligent and interesting, and then, my dear, you'll
forget, and the day will skip past, and before you know where you are it
will be Tuesday morning and your chance will have gone. Cecil, fancy
it! A whole fortnight without a grumble. It seems almost too good to
be true!"
"It does!" said the English mistress eloquently. She sat upright on the
green plush sofa, her shabby slippers well in evidence beneath the edge
of her shabby skirt, staring with curious eyes at the radiant figure of
the girl in the opposite chair. "I don't think you need a day at all!"
"Because I'm going to a solitary party? Only two minutes ago, my love,
you were sympathising with my hard lot! I shall have Fridays. I'm
tired on Fridays, and it's getting near the time for making up accounts.
I can be quite a creditable grumbler on Fridays."
"Well, just as you like! You _are_ going to the party, I suppose?
Haven't changed your mind by any chance, and determined to spend the
evening hectoring me! If you are going, you'd better go. I'll sit up
for you and keep some cocoa--"
Claire rose with a smile.
"I appreciate the inference! Starved and disillusioned, I am to creep
home and weep on your bosom. Well, we'll see! Good-bye for the
present. I'll tell you all about it when I get back..."
A minute's whistling at the front door produced a taxi, in which Claire
seated herself and was whirled westward through brightly lighted
streets. In the less fashionable neighbourhoods the usual Saturday
crowd thronged round the shops and booths, making their purchases at an
hour when perishable goods could be obtained at bargain prices. Claire
and Cecil had themselves made such expeditions before now, coming home
triumphant with some savoury morsel for supper, and with quite a lavish
supply of flowers to deck the little room. At the time the expeditions
had been pleasant enough, and there had seemed nothing in the least
_infra dig_ in taking advantage of the opportunity; but to-night the
girl in the cloudy cloak looked through the windows of her chariot with
an ineffable condescension, and found it difficult to believe that she
herself had ever made one of so insignificant a throng!
"How I do love luxury! It's the breath of my nostrils," she said to
herself with a little sigh of content, as she straightened herself in
her seat, and smiled back at her own reflection in the strip of mirror
opposite. Her hair had "gone" just right. What a comfort that was!
Sometimes it took a stupid turn and could not be induced to obey. She
opened the cloak at the top and peeped at the dainty whiteness within,
with the daring, thoroughly French touch of vivid emerald green which
gave a _cachet_ to the whole. Yes, it was quite as pretty as she had
believed. Every whit as becoming. "I don't look a bit like a school-
mistress!" smiled Claire, and snoodled back again against the cushions
with a deep breath of content.
She was not in the least shy. Many a girl about to make her _entree_
into a strange house would have been suffering qualms of misgiving by
this time, but Claire had spent her life more or less in public, and was
accustomed to meet strangers as a matter of course, so there was no
dread to take the edge off her enjoyment.
Even when the taxi slowed down to take its place in the stream of
vehicles which were drawn up before Mrs Willoughby's house, she knew
only a heightened enjoyment in the realisation that it was not a party
at all, but a real big fashionable At Home.
The usual crowd of onlookers stood on either side of the door, and as
Claire descended from the taxi, the sight of her golden slippers and
floating clouds of gauze evoked a gratifying murmur of admiration. She
passed on with her head in the air, looking neither to right nor left,
but close against the rails stood a couple of working girls whose
wistful eyes drew her own as with a magnet. In their expression was a
whole world of awe, of admiration; they looked at her as at a denizen of
another sphere, hardly presuming even to be envious, so infinitely was
she removed from their grey-hued life. As Claire met their eyes, an
impulse seized her to stop and tell them that she was just a working
girl like themselves, but convention being too strong to allow of such
familiarities, she smiled instead, with such a frank and friendly
acknowledgment of their admiration as brought a flash of pleasure to
their faces.
"She's a real laidy, she is!" said Gladys to Maud; and Maud sniffed in
assent, and answered strongly, "You bet your life!"
The inside of the house seemed out of all proportion with the outside
appearance. This is a special peculiarity of the West End, which has
puzzled many a visitor besides Claire Gifford. What _is_ the magic
which transforms narrow slips of buildings into spacious halls and
imposing flights of stairways? Viewed from the street, the town houses
of well-known personages seem quite inadequate for their purpose; viewed
from within, they are all that is stately and appropriate. Those of us
who live in less favoured neighbourhoods would fain solve the riddle.
Mrs Willoughby stood at the top of her own staircase, shaking hands
with the stream of ascending guests, and motioning them forward to the
suite of entertaining rooms from which came a steady murmur of voices.
She was a stout woman, with a vast expanse of white shoulders which
seemed to join right on to her head without any preliminary in the shape
of a neck. Her hair was dark, and a plain face was lightened by a pair
of exceedingly pleasant, exceedingly alert brown eyes. As soon as she
met those eyes Claire felt assured that the kindness of which she had
heard was a real thing, and that this woman could be counted upon as a
friend. There was, it is true, a slight vagueness in the manner in
which she made her greeting, but a murmur of "Mrs Fanshawe" instantly
revived recollections.
"Of course--of course!" she cried heartily. "So glad you could come, my
dear. I must see you later on. Reginald!"--she beckoned to a lad in an
Eton suit--"I want you to take charge of Miss Gifford. Take her to have
some coffee, and introduce her to some one nice."
A nod and a smile, and Mrs Willoughby had turned back to welcome the
next guest in order, while the Eton boy offered his arm with the air of
a prince of the blood, and led the way to a refreshment buffet around
which the guests were swarming with an eagerness astonishing to behold
when one realised how lately they must have risen from the dinner-table.
Claire found her young cavalier very efficient in his attentions. He
settled her in a comfortable corner, brought her a cup of coffee heaped
with foaming cream, and gave it as his opinion that it was going to be
"a beastly crush." Claire wondered if it would be tactful to inquire
how he happened to be at home in the middle of a term; but while she
hesitated he supplied the information himself.
"I'm home on leave. Appendicitis. Left the nursing home three weeks
ago. Been at the sea, and came back yesterday in time for this show.
Getting a bit tired of slacking!"
"You must be. Dear me! I _am_ sorry. Too bad to begin so soon,"
murmured Claire pitifully; but Master Reginald disdained sympathy.
"Oh, I dunno," he said calmly. "It's quite the correct thing, don't you
know? Everybody's doing it. Just as well to get it through. It
might"--he opened his pale eyes with a startled look--"it might have
come on in the hols! Pretty fool I should have looked if I'd been done
out of winter sports."
"There's that way of looking at it!" Claire said demurely. For a
moment she debated whether she should break the fact that she herself
was a school-mistress, but decided that it would be wiser to refrain
since the boy would certainly feel more at ease with her in her private
capacity. So for the next half-hour they sat happily together in their
corner, while the boy discoursed on the subjects nearest his heart, and
the girl deftly switched him back to the subjects more congenial.
"Yes, I love cricket. At least I'm sure I should do, if I understood it
better... _Do_ tell me who is the big old lady with the eyeglass and
the diamond tiara?"
"Couldn't tell you to save my life. Rather an out-size, isn't she?
Towers over the men. I say! you ought to go to Lord's Will you turn up
at Lord's next year to see our match? We might meet somewhere and I'd
give you tea. Harrow won't have a chance. We've got a bowler who--"
"Can he really? How nice! Oh, that _is_ a curious-looking man with the
long hair! I'm sure he is something, or does something different from
other people. Is he a musician, do you think? Do you ever have music
on these evenings?"
"Rather! Sometimes the mater hires a big swell, sometimes she lets
loose the amateurs. She knows lots of amateurs, y'know. People who are
trying to be big-wigs, and want the chance to show off. The mater
encourages them. Great mistake if you ask me, but you needn't listen if
you don't want. She has one of these crushes once a month. Beastly
dull, I call them. Can't think why the people come. But she gives them
a rattling good feed. Supper comes on at twelve, in the dining-room
downstairs."
But Claire was not interested in supper. All her attention was taken up
in watching the stream of people passing by, and for a time the youth of
her companion had seemed an advantage, since it made it easy to indulge
her curiosity concerning her fellow-guests by a succession of questions
which might have been boring to an adult. As time passed on, however,
and she became conscious that more than one pair of masculine eyes
turned in her direction, she wished frankly Master Reginald would
remember his mother's instructions and proceed without further delay to
introduce her to "someone nice." To return home and confess to Cecil
that she had spent the evening in company with a schoolboy would be
almost as humiliating as sitting alone in a corner.
It was at this point that Claire became aware of the presence of a very
small, very wizened old woman sitting alone at the opposite side of the
room, her mittened hands clawing each other restlessly in her lap, her
sunken eyes glancing to right and left with a glance distinctly hostile.
The passing of guests frequently hid her from view, but when a gap came
again, there she sat, still alone, still twisting her mittened hands,
still coldly staring around. Claire thought she looked a very
disagreeable old lady, but she was sorry for her all the same. Horrid
to be old and cross, and to be alone in a crowd! She put yet another
question to the boy by her side.
"That," said Master Willoughby seriously, "is Great-aunt Jane. Great-
aunt Jane is the skeleton in our cupboard. The mater says so, and she
ought to know. Every time the mater has a show, the moment the door is
opened, in comes Great-aunt Jane, and sits it out until every one has
gone. If any one dares speak to her she snaps his head off, and if they
let her alone, she's furious, and gives it to the mater after they're
gone. Most of the crowd know her by now, and pretend they don't see,
... and she gets waxier and waxier. Would you like to be introduced?"
"Yes, please!" said Claire unexpectedly. She was tired of sitting in
one corner, and wanted to move her position, but she was also quite
genuinely anxious to try her hand at cheering poor cross Great-aunt
Jane. The old lady _pensionnaires_ in the "Villa Beau Sejour" had made
a point of petting and flattering the pretty English girl, and Claire
was complacently assured that this old lady would follow their example.
But she was mistaken.
"Aunt Jane, Miss Gifford asks to be introduced to you. Miss Gifford--
Lady Jane Willoughby."
Reginald beat a hurried retreat, and Claire seated herself at the end of
the sofa and smilingly awaited her companion's lead. It did not come.
After one automatic nod of the head, Lady Jane resumed her former
position, taking no more notice of the new-comer than if she had
remained at the far end of the room. Claire felt her cheeks begin to
burn. Her complacence had suffered a shock, but pride came to her
rescue, and she made a determined effort at conversation.
"That nice boy has been telling me that he has had appendicitis."
Lady Jane favoured her with a frosty glance.
"Yes, he has. Perhaps you will excuse me from talking about it. I
object to the discussion of diseases at social gatherings."
Claire's cheeks grew hotter still. A quick retort came to her lips.
"I wasn't going to discuss it! I only mentioned it for--for something
to say. I couldn't think how else to begin!"
The droop of Lady Jane's eyelids inferred that it was really quite
superfluous to begin at all. Claire waited a whole two minutes by the
clock, and then made another effort.
"I hear we are to have some music later on."
"Sorry to hear it," said Great-aunt Jane.
"Really! I was so glad. Aren't you fond of music, then?"
"I am very fond of music," said Aunt Jane, and there was a world of
insinuation in her voice. Without a definite word being spoken, the
hearer was informed that good music, real music, music worthy the name,
was a thing that no sane person would expect to hear at Mrs
Willoughby's "At Homes." She was really the most terrifying and
disconcerting of old ladies, and Claire heartily repented the impulse
which had brought her to her side. A pretty thing it would be if she
were left alone on this sofa for the rest of the evening!
But fortune was kind, and from across the room came a good angel who was
so exactly a reproduction of Mrs Willoughby herself, minus half her
age, that it must obviously be her daughter. Janet Willoughby was not a
pretty girl, but she looked gay, and bright, and beaming with good
humour, and at this moment with a spice of mischief into the bargain.
The manner in which she held out her hand to Claire was as friendly as
though the two girls had been friends for years.
"Miss Gifford? I was sure it must be you. Mother told me to look for
you. Aunt Jane, will you excuse my running away with Miss Gifford?
Several people are asking to be introduced. Will you come with me, Miss
Gifford? I want to take you into the music room."
Claire rose with a very leap of eagerness, and as soon as they had
gained a safe distance, Miss Willoughby turned to her with twinkling
eyes.
"I am afraid you were having a bad time! I caught sight of you across
the room and was so sorry. Who took you over there? Was it that
naughty Reginald?"
"He did, but I asked him. I thought she looked lonely. I thought
perhaps she would be pleased."
Janet Willoughby's smile showed a quick approval.
"That was kind! Thanks for the good intention, but I can't let you be
victimised any more. I want to talk to you myself, and half-a-dozen men
have been asking for introductions to the girl with the green sash. You
know Mrs Fanshawe, don't you? Isn't she charming? She and I are the
greatest of chums. I always say she has never succeeded in growing
older than seventeen. She is so delightfully irresponsible and
impulsive. She wrote mother a charming letter about you. It made us
quite anxious to meet you, but you know what town life is--a continual
rush! Everything gets put off."
"It was awfully good of you to ask me at all, and very kind of Mrs
Fanshawe to write. I only know her in the most casual way. We crossed
over from Antwerp together, and her maid was ill, and I was able to be
of some use, and when she heard that I was coming to work in London and
that I knew nobody here--she--"
Jane Willoughby stared in frank amazement.
"Do you really mean that that was all? You met her only that one time?
You know nothing of her home or her people?"
"Only that time. I hope--I hope you don't think--"
Claire suffered an anxious moment before she realised that for some
unexplained reason Miss Willoughby was more pleased than annoyed by the
intelligence. An air of something extraordinarily like relief passed
over her features. She laughed gaily and said--
"I don't think anything at all except that it is delightfully like Mrs
Fanshawe. She wrote as if she had known you for ages. As a matter of
fact she probably _does_ know you quite well. She is so extraordinarily
quick and clever, that she crowds as much life into an hour as an
ordinary person does into a week. She told us that you had chosen to
come to London to work, rather than go to India and have a good time.
How plucky of you! And you teach at one of the big High Schools... You
don't look in the least like a school-mistress."
"Ah! I'm off duty to-night! You should see me in the morning, in my
working clothes. You should see me at night, correcting exercises on
the dining-table in a lodging-house parlour, and cooking sausages in a
chafing-dish for our evening meal. I `dig' with the English mistress,
and do most of our cooking myself, as the landlady's tastes and ours
don't agree. I'm getting to be quite an expert at manufacturing
sixpenny dainties."
Janet Willoughby breathed a deep sigh; the diamond star on her neck sent
out vivid gleams of light.
"What fun!" she sighed enviously. "What fun!" and as she spoke there
flashed suddenly before the eyes of her listener a picture of the
English mistress lying on the green plush sofa, her shabby slippers
showing beneath the hem of her shabby skirt, spending the holiday
Saturday evening at home because she had no invitations to go out, and
no money to spare for an entertainment. "Oh, I _do_ envy you!" sighed
Janet deeply. "It's one of my greatest ambitions to share rooms with a
nice girl, and live the simple life, and be free to do whatever one
liked. Mother loves independence in other girls, but her principles
don't extend to me. She says an only daughter's place is at home. But
you are an only daughter, too."
"I am; but other circumstances were different. It was a case of being
dependent on a stepfather or of working for myself--so I chose to work,
and--"
"And I'm sure you never regret it!"
Claire extended her hands in the expressive French shrug.
"Ah, but I do! Horribly, at times. Even now, after three months' work
I have a conviction that I shall regret it more and more as time goes
on; but if I had to decide again, I'd do just the same. It's a question
of principle versus so many things--laziness and self-indulgence, and
wanting to have a good time, and the habits of a lifetime, and
irritation with stupid girls who won't work."
Janet Willoughby gave a soft murmur of understanding.
"Yes, of course. Stupid of me to say that! Of course, you must get
tired when you've never taught before. Does it bore you very much?"
"Teaching? Oh, no. As a rule I love it, and take a pride in inventing
new ways to help the girls. It's the all work and no play that gets on
one's nerves, and the feeling of being cut off from the world by an
impassable barrier of something that really doesn't exist. People have
a prejudice against school-mistresses. They think they are dull, and
proper, and pedantic. If they want to be complimentary they say, `You
don't look like a school-mistress.' You did yourself, not two minutes
ago. But really and truly they are just natural, everyday girls,
wanting to have a good time in their leisure hours like other girls.
You can't think how happy I was to come here to-night and have the
chance of putting on pretty things again."
Janet Willoughby put her hand on Claire's arm and piloted her deftly
through the crowd.
"Now," she said firmly, "you just stay here, and I'll bring up all the
nicest men in the room, and introduce them in turns. You _shall_ have a
good time, and you are wearing the very prettiest things in the room--if
it's any comfort to you to hear it. We won't talk about school any
more. To-night is for fun!"
The next hour passed on flying feet, while Claire sat the queen of a
little court, and Janet Willoughby flitted to and fro, bringing up fresh
arrivals to be introduced, and drafting off the last batch to other
parts of the crowded rooms. All the men were agreeable and amusing, and
showed a flattering appreciation of their position. Claire felt no more
interest in one than in another, but she liked them all, and felt a
distinct pleasure in talking to men again after the convent-like
existence of the last months. She was pleased to welcome a new-comer,
smiled unconcerned at a farewell.
From time to time the buzz of voices was temporarily broken by the crash
of the piano, but always before the end of each performance it rose
again, and steadily swelled in volume. In truth, the excellence of the
performance was no great inducement to listen, and Mrs Willoughby's
forehead showed a pucker of anxiety. She drifted across to Claire's
corner, and spoke a few kindly words of welcome, which ended in a half
apology.
"I am sorry the music is so poor. It varies so much on different
nights. Sometimes we have quite a number of good singers, but to-night
there are none. I am afraid so much piano grows a little boring."
She looked in the girl's face with a quick inquiry.
"Do _you_ sing?"
"No-o." The word seemed final, yet there was an unmistakable hesitation
in Claire's voice. Mrs Willoughby's glance sharpened.
"But you do something? Play? Recite? What is it? My dear, I should
be so grateful!"
"I--whistle!" confessed Claire with a blush, and a little babble of
delight greeted the words. Every one who heard hailed the chance of a
variety in the monotonous programme. Mrs Willoughby beamed with all
the relief of a hostess unexpectedly relieved of anxiety.
"Delightful! Charming! My dear, it will be such a help! You would
like an accompaniment? I'll introduce you to Mr Helder. He can play
anything you like. Will you come now! I am sure every one will be
charmed."
There was no time for a second thought. The next moment the long-haired
Mr Helder was bowing over Claire's hand, and professing his delight.
The little group in the corner were pressing forward to obtain a point
of vantage, and throughout the company in general was passing a wordless
hum of excitement. Mr Helder was seating himself at the piano, a girl
in a white dress had ascended the impromptu platform and now stood by
his side, a pretty girl, a very pretty girl, a girl who acknowledged the
scattered applause with a smile which showed two dimples on one cheek, a
girl who looked neither shy nor conceited, but simply as if she were
enjoying herself very much, and expected everybody to do the same. She
was going to sing. It would be a relief to listen to singing after the
continued performances upon the piano. They hoped sincerely that she
could sing well. Why didn't the accompaniment begin?
Then suddenly a white-gloved hand gave a signal, Mr Helder's hands
descended on the keys, and at the same instant from between Claire's
pursed-up lips there flowed a stream of high, flute-like notes,
repeating the air with a bird-like fluency and ease. She had chosen the
old-world ballad, "Cherry Ripe," the quaint turns and trills of which
lent themselves peculiarly well to this method of interpretation, and
the swing and gaiety of the measure carried the audience by storm.
Looking down from her platform Claire could see the indifferent faces
suddenly lighten into interest, into smiles, into positive beams of
approval. At the second verse heads began to wag; unconsciously to
their owners lips began to purse. It was inspiring to watch those
faces, to know that it was she herself who had wrought the magic change.
Those moments for Claire were pure undiluted joy. Whistling had come to
her as a natural gift, compensating to some extent for the lack of a
singing voice; later on she had taken lessons, and practised seriously
to perfect her facility. At school in Paris, later on in attending
social gatherings with her mother, she had had abundant opportunities of
overcoming the initial shyness; but indeed shyness was never a serious
trouble with Claire Gifford, who was gifted with that very agreeable
combination of qualities,--an amiable desire to please other people, and
a comfortable assurance of her own powers.
At the end of the third verse the applause burst out with a roar.
"Bravos" sounded from every side, and "Encores" persisted so strenuously
that Claire was not permitted even to descend from her platform. Mrs
Willoughby rustled forward full of gratitude and thanks. Mr Helder
rubbed his hands, and beamingly awaited further commands... What would
Cecil have to say to a success like this?
Claire's second choice was one of Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words," a
quieter measure this time, sweet and flowing, and giving opportunity for
a world of delicate phrasing. It was one of the pieces which she had
practised with a master, and with which she felt most completely at
home; and if the audience found it agreeable to hear, they also, to
judge from their faces, found it equally agreeable to watch. Claire's
cheeks were flushed to a soft rose-pink, her head moved to and fro,
unconsciously keeping time with the air; one little golden shoe softly
tapped the floor. Her unconsciousness of self added to the charm of the
performance. But once the audience noticed, with sympathetic amusement,
her composure was seriously threatened, so that the bird-like notes
quavered ominously, and the twin dimples deepened into veritable holes.
Claire had caught sight of Great-aunt Jane standing in solitary state at
the rear of the throng of listeners, her mittened fingers still
plucking, her eyes frosty with disapproval.
After that Claire safeguarded her composure by looking steadily downward
at the points of her shoes until the end of the song approached, when it
seemed courteous, once more, to face her audience. She raised her eyes,
and as she did so her heart leapt within her with a startling force.
She was thankful that it _was_ the end, that the long final note was
already on her lips, for there, standing in the doorway, his face
upraised to hers, stood her knight of the railway station, the rescuer
of the lost box--Erskine Fanshawe himself!