Part 19 (1/2)

”I don't know! I don't know!” she said brokenly. ”It's all wrong, somehow. You ought not to be forced into such a position, but I don't blame you, Cecil. It's the _other_ women who deserve the blame, the women who are better off, and could have opened their houses. You have been so drearily dull all these long years that you would have been more than human to refuse. But now, dear, now that you are engaged, surely he has some friends to whom he could introduce you?”

Mary Rhodes shook her head.

”Not till his people know. It might come round to their ears, and that would make things more difficult still; but I am hoping it won't be long. Now, Claire, I've told _you_, because you are such a kind understanding little soul, and it's a comfort to talk things out; but I'll kill you if you dare to breathe a word to another soul--Sophie Blake, or Mrs Willoughby, or even your mother when you write to her.

You can never tell how these things are repeated, and Frank would never forgive me if it came out through me. Promise faithfully that you'll never mention his name in connection with me.”

”Of course I will. What do you take me for? I shouldn't dream of doing such a thing!”

”Of course, at the Willoughbys', for instance, if anyone _did_ mention his name--they might, quite well, for I should think they were in much the same set--there would be no harm in saying that you'd heard of him.

I should rather like to hear what they said.”

Cecil's face looked wistful as she spoke these last words, but the next moment her expression changed to one of pure amazement as the whirr of the cuckoo clock made itself heard, and the little brown bird hopped out of its niche, and sounded five clear notes.

”Gracious, what's that? Where did that come from?”

”It was a Christmas present to me from abroad.”

Claire added the last words in the fond hope that they would save further criticism, and Cecil rose from her seat, and stood in front of the hanging clock examining it with critical eyes.

”It's a good one. Most of them are so gimcrack. From abroad? One of your Belgian friends, I suppose? Does it make that awful row every hour? I can't stand it here, you know, if it does.”

”Don't trouble yourself. I'll take it upstairs. I _like_ the 'awful row.' I put it here because I thought it would be a pleasure to you as well as to myself. I'm sorry.”

”What a tantrum! Evidently the clock is a tender point. Better leave it here and stop the gong. It will keep you awake all night.”

”I won't stop the gong! I--I like to be waked!” declared Claire obstinately. She lifted the clock from its nail, and stalked out of the room, head in air.

Cecil whistled softly between pursed lips.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

AN UNPLEASANT TEA-PARTY.

In the inevitable fatigue which had marked Claire's first experience of regular work, she had looked forward with joy to the coming of the holidays when she would be able to take her ease, and for a month on end laze through the hours at her own sweet will. A teacher scores above other workers in the length of holidays she enjoys. Several months in the year contrasts strongly with the fortnight or three weeks enjoyed by a female clerk or typist; in no other profession is so large a proportion of the year given to rest.

Claire had condemned the staff at Saint Cuthbert's for want of appreciation of this privilege; but, before the four weeks of the Christmas holidays were over, her eyes were opened to the other side of the picture. Holidays were horribly expensive! Living ”at home” meant an added bill for fire and light to add to the necessary expenses abroad; that the last items were necessary could hardly be denied, for a girl who had been shut up in a schoolroom through three months of term, naturally wished to amuse herself abroad during holiday time, and in London even the most carefully planned amus.e.m.e.nt has a habit of costing money.

Even that mild dissipation of shop-gazing, enjoyed by Sophie Blake, plus the additional excitement of choosing an imaginary present from every window, could only be enjoyed at the price of two Tube or omnibus fares.

Boots wore out, too, and gloves grew shabby, and the January sales furnished a very fire of temptation. Claire had never before seen such bargains as confronted her down the length of Oxford and Regent Streets, and, though she might be firm as adamant on Monday or Tuesday, Wednesday was bound to bring about a weak moment which carried her over the threshold of a shop, and once inside, with sensational sacrifices dangling within reach, resistance melted like wax.

”Where do you suppose you are going to wear that concoction?” Mary Rhodes asked blightingly as Claire opened a cardboard box which had arrived by the morning delivery, and displayed a blue muslin dress inset with lace. ”Lords, I suppose, or Ascot, or Ranelagh, or Hurlingham, or Henley... They come on in June and July, just as poor High School- mistresses are in the thick of cramming for the Matric. But _no_ doubt you are the exception to the rule! ... You must think you are, at least, to have bought a frock like that!”

”Cecil, it was wickedly cheap--it was, indeed! It was one of a few summer dresses which were positively given away, and it's made in the simple, picturesque style which I love, and which does not go out of date. I hadn't the least intention of buying anything, until I saw it hanging there, at that price, and it looked at me so longingly, as if it _wanted_ to come!”

”It's well to be rich! It might have longed at me as much as it liked, I couldn't have bought it, if it had been two-and-six! I need all my money for necessities,” Mary Rhodes said, sighing; and Claire felt a pang of reproach, for, since her return, Cecil had indeed seemed painfully short of loose cash. The debt still outstanding had been increased by various small borrowings, insignificant in themselves, yet important as showing how the wind blew. Claire wondered if perchance the poor soul had crippled herself by presenting her lover with a Christmas gift which was beyond her means.

The third week of the holidays arrived; in another week school would begin. Claire succ.u.mbed to temptation once more, purchased two good tickets for an afternoon concert at the Queen's Hall, and invited Cecil to be her guest. Cecil hesitated, evidently torn between two attractions, asked permission to defer her answer until the next day, but finally decided to accept. From remarks dropped from time to time Claire had gathered that Major Carew was not fond of indoor entertainments, and somewhat disappointed his _fiancee_ by his unwillingness to indulge her wishes in that respect. In this instance she had evidently balanced the concert against an afternoon in the Major's society, and the concert had won. Claire found herself cordially in agreement.

When the afternoon arrived the two girls arrayed themselves in their best clothes, and set off in high spirits for their afternoon's amus.e.m.e.nt. Their seats were in a good position, and the concert was one of the best of the season. All went as happily as it could possibly go, until the last strains of ”G.o.d save the King” had been played, and the audience filed out of the hall on to the crowded pavement, and then, with a throb of disgust, Claire recognised the figure of a man who was standing directly beneath a lamp-post, his black eyes curiously scanning the pa.s.sing stream--Major Carew! He had evidently been told of the girls' destination, and had come with the express purpose of meeting them coming out. For the moment, however, they were unrecognised, and Claire gave a quick swerve to the right, hurrying out of the patch of light into the dimness beyond. The street was so full that, given a minute's start, it would surely be easy to escape. She slid her hand through Cecil's arm, drawing her forward.