Part 9 (1/2)
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 pa.s.sed 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sage 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? Sat.u.r.day is my work day. I've been darning stockings, and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g a hat, and ironing a blouse, and was.h.i.+ng lace, and writing letters all in a rush. I love a muddle on Sat.u.r.days. 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 Sat.u.r.day, my dear. I never think of disagreeables on Sat.u.r.day. 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 fis.h.i.+ng, 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 Sat.u.r.day? 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_!”
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE RECEPTION.
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 c.o.c.king 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!