Part 15 (1/2)

”I can't think what in the world to buy for John.”

”Do try to give me an idea what Rose would like!...”

Claire mingled with the throng, pushed her way towards the crowded counters, waited a preposterous time for her change, and then hurried off to another department to go through the same struggle once more.

Deliberately she threw herself into the Christmas feeling, turning her thoughts from herself, considering only how she could add to the general happiness. She bought presents for everybody, for the cross landlady, for the untidy servant girl, for Sophie Blake, and Flora Ross, for the maid at Saint Cuthbert's who waited upon the Staff-Room, with a selection of dainty oddments for girl friends at Brussels, and when the presents themselves had been secured she bought prettily tinted paper, and fancy ribbons, and decorated name cards for the adornment of the parcels.

The saffron parlour looked quite Christmas-like that evening, and Claire knew a happy hour as she made up her gifts in their dainty wrappings.

They looked so gay and seasonable that she decided to defer putting them into the sober outer covering of brown paper as long as possible. They were all the Christmas decoration she would have!

On Sunday morning the feeling of loneliness took an acute turn. Claire longed for a church which long a.s.sociation had made into a home; for a clergyman who was also a friend; for a congregation of people who knew her, and cared for her well-being, instead of the long rows of strange faces. She remembered how Cecil had declared that in London a girl might attend the same church for years on end, and never hear a word of welcome, and hope died low in her breast. The moment of exaltation had pa.s.sed, and she told herself drearily that on Christmas afternoon she must take a book and sit by the fire in the waiting-room of some great station, dine at a restaurant, and perhaps go to a concert at night.

For weeks past Claire had been intending to go to a West End church to hear one of the finest of modern preachers. She decided to go this morning, since the length of journey now seemed rather an advantage than a drawback, as helping to fill up another of the long, dragging hours.

She dressed herself with the care and nicety which was the result of her French training, and which had of late become almost a religious duty, for the study of the fifteen women who daily a.s.sembled round the table in the Staff-Room was as a danger signal to warn new-comers of the perils ahead. With the one exception of Sophie Blake, not one of the number seemed to make any effort to preserve their feminine charm. They dressed their hair in the quickest and easiest fas.h.i.+on without considering the question of appearance; they wore dun-coloured garments with collars of the same material; though severely neat, all their skirts seemed to suffer from the same depressing tendency to drop at the back; their bony wrists emerged from tightly-b.u.t.toned sleeves. The point of view adopted was that appearance did not matter, that it was waste of time to consider the adornment of the outer woman. Brain was the all-important factor; every possible moment must be devoted to the cultivation of brain; but an outsider could not fail to note that, with this destroying of a natural instinct, something which went deeper than the surface was also lost; with the grace of the body certain feminine graces of soul died also, and the world was poorer for their loss.

The untidy servant maid peered out of the window to watch Claire as she left the house that morning, and evolved a whole feuilleton to account for the inconsistency of her appearance with her position as a first floor front. ”You'd take her for a lady to look at her! P'raps she _is_ a lady in disguise!” and from, this point the making of the feuilleton began.

The service that morning was food to Claire's hungering soul, for the words of the preacher might have been designed to meet her own need. As she listened she realised that the bitterness of loneliness was impossible to one who believed and trusted in the great, all-compa.s.sing love. Sad one might still be, so long as the human heart demanded a human companions.h.i.+p, but the sting of feeling uncared for, could never touch a child of G.o.d. She took the comfort home to her heart, and stored it there to help her through the difficult time ahead, and on her knees at the end of the service she sent up her own little pet.i.tion for help.

”There are so many homes in this great city! Is there no home for me on Christmas Day?” With the words the tears sprang, and Claire mopped her eyes with her handkerchief, thankful that she was surrounded by strangers by whom her reddened eyes would pa.s.s unnoticed. Then rising to her feet, she turned to lift the furs which hung on the back of the pew, and met the brown eyes of a girl who had been sitting behind her the whole of the service.

The girl was Janet Willoughby.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

ENTER MAJOR CAREW.

In the street outside the church door the two girls shook hands and exchanged greetings. Janet wore a long fur coat, and a toque of dark Russian sable, with a sweeping feather at one side. The price of these two garments alone would equal the whole of Claire's yearly salary, but it had the effect of making the wearer look clumsy and middle-aged compared with the graceful simplicity of the other's French-cut costume.

Janet Willoughby was not thinking of clothes at that moment, however; she was looking at reddened eyelids, and remembering the moment when she had seen a kneeling figure suddenly shaken with emotion. The sight of those tears had wiped away the rankling grudge which had lain at her heart since the evening of her mother's At Home, and revived the warm liking which at first sight she had taken to this pretty attractive girl.

”Which way are you going? May I walk with you? It's just the morning for a walk. I hope it will keep cold and bright over Christmas. It's so inappropriate when it's muggy. Last year we were in Switzerland, but mother is old-fas.h.i.+oned, and likes to have the day at home, so this time we don't start till the new year. You are not going sporting by any chance?”

”I'm not!” said Claire, and, for all her determination, could not resist a grimace, so far from sporting seemed the prospect ahead. Janet caught the grimace, and smiled in sympathy, but the next moment her face sobered.

”But I hope you _are_ going to have jolly holidays?”

”Oh, I hope so. Oh, yes, I mean to enjoy them very much,” Claire said valiantly, and swiftly turned the subject. ”Where do you go in Switzerland?”

”Saint Moritz. We've gone there for years--a large party of friends.

It has become quite a yearly reunion. It's so comfy to have one's own party, and be independent of the other hoteliers. They may be quite nice, of course, but then, again, they may not. I feel rather mean sometimes when I see a new arrival looking with big eyes at our merry table. Theoretically, I think one _ought_ to be nice to new-comers in an hotel. It's such a pelican-in-the-wilderness feeling. I'd hate it myself, but practically I'm afraid I'm not particularly friendly. We are so complete that we don't want outsiders. They'd spoil the fun.

Don't you think one is justified in being a little bit selfish at Christmas-time?”

Claire laughed, her old, happy, gurgling laugh. It warmed her heart to have Janet Willoughby's companions.h.i.+p once more.

”It isn't exactly the orthodox att.i.tude, is it? Perhaps you will be more justified this year, after you have got through your Christmas duties at home.”

”Yes! That's a good idea. I _shall_, for it was pure unselfishness which prevented me running away last week with the rest of the party.

Mother would have given in if I'd persisted, and I wanted to so dreadfully badly.” She sighed, and looked quite dejected, but Claire remained unmoved.