The Independence of Claire Part 4

"Because I want to be independent."

Mrs Fanshawe rolled her eyes to the hat-rail.

"My dear, nonsense! You're far too pretty. Leave that to the poor creatures who have no chance of finding other people to work for them.

You should change your mind, you know, you really should. India's quite an agreeable place to put in a few years. The English girl is a trifle overdone, but with your complexion you would be bound to have a success.

Think it over! Don't be in a hurry to let the chance slip!"

"It _has_ slipped. They sail from Ma.r.s.eilles a week from to-day, and besides I don't want to change. I like the prospect of independence better even than being admired."

"Though you like that, too?"

"Of course. Who doesn't? I'm hoping--with good luck--to be admired in England instead!"

"Then you mustn't be independent!" Mrs Fanshawe said, laughing. "It was the rage a year or two ago; girls had a craze for joining Settlements, and running about in the slums, but it's quite out of date.

Hobble skirts killed it. It's impossible to be utilitarian in a hobble skirt... And how do you propose to show your independence, may I ask?"

"I am going to be French mistress in a High School," Claire said st.u.r.dily, and hated herself because she winced before the eloquent change of expression which pa.s.sed over her companion's face.

Mrs Fanshawe said, "Oh, really! How _very_ interesting!" and looked about as uninterested the while as a human creature could be. In the pause which followed it was obvious that she was readjusting the first impression of a young gentlewoman belonging to her own leisured cla.s.s, and preparing herself to cross-question an entirely different person--an ordinary teacher in a High School! There was a touch of patronage in her manner, but it was still quite agreeable Mrs Fanshawe was always agreeable for choice: she found it the best policy, and her indolent nature shrank from disagreeables of every kind. This pretty girl had made herself quite useful, and a chat with her would enliven a dull hour in the train. Curiosity s.h.i.+fted its point, but remained actively in force.

"Tell me all about it!" she said suavely. "I know nothing about teachers. Shocking, isn't it? They alarm me too much. I have a horror of clever women. You don't look at all clever. I mean that as a compliment--far too pretty and smart, but I suppose you are dreadfully learned, all the same. What are you going to teach?"

"French. I am almost as good as a Frenchwoman, for I've talked little else for sixteen years. Mother and I spoke English together, or I should have forgotten my own language. It seems, from a scholastic point of view, that it's a useful blend to possess--perfect French and an English temperament. 'Mademoiselle' is not always a model of patience!"

"And you think you will be? I prophesy differently. You'll throw the whole thing up in six months, and fly off to mamma in India. You haven't the least idea what you are in for, but you'll find out, you'll find out! Where is this precious school? In town, did you say? Shall you live in the house or with friends?"

"I have no friends in London except Miss Farnborough, the head mistress, but there are fifteen other mistresses besides myself. That will be fifteen friends ready-made. I am going to share lodgings with one of them, and be a bachelor girl on my own account. I'm so excited about it. After living in countries where a girl can't go to the pillar-box alone, it will be thrilling to be free to do just as I like. Please don't pity me! I'm going to have great fun."

Mrs Fanshawe hitched herself still further into her corner and smiled a lazy, quizzical smile.

"Oh, I don't pity you--not one bit! All young people nowadays think they are so much wiser than their parents; it's a wholesome lesson to learn their mistake. You're a silly, blind, ridiculous little girl, and if I'd been your mother, I should have insisted upon taking you with me, whether you liked it or not. I always wanted a daughter like you--sons are so dull; but perhaps it's just as well that she never appeared. She might have wanted to be independent, too, in which case we should have quarrelled.--So those fifteen school-mistresses make up your whole social circle, do they? I wouldn't mind prophesying that you'll never want to speak a word to them out of school hours! I have a friend living in town, quite a nice woman, with a daughter about your age.

Shall I ask her to send you a card? It would be somewhere for you to go on free afternoons, and she entertains a good deal, and has a craze for the feminist movement, and for girls who work for themselves. You might come in for some fun."

Claire's flush of gratification made her look prettier than ever, and Mrs Fanshawe felt an agreeable glow of self-satisfaction. Nothing she liked better than to play the part of Lady Bountiful, especially when any effort involved was s.h.i.+fted onto the shoulders of another, and in her careless fas.h.i.+on she was really anxious to do this nice girl a good turn. She made a note of Claire's address in a dainty gold-edged pocket-book, expressed pleasure in the belief that through her friend she would hear reports of the girl's progress, and presently shut her eyes, and dozed peacefully for the rest of the ride.

Round London a fine rain was falling, and the terminus looked bleak and cheerless as the train slowed down the long platform. Mason, still haggard, roused herself to step to the platform and look around as if expecting to see a familiar face, and in the midst of collecting her own impedimenta Claire was conscious that Mrs Fanshawe was distinctly ruffled, when the familiar figure failed to appear. Once more she found herself coming to the rescue, marshalling the combined baggage to the screened portion of the platform where the custom-house officials went through the formalities incidental to the occasion, while the tired pa.s.sengers stood s.h.i.+veringly on guard, looking bleached and grey after their night's journey. The bright-haired, bright-faced girl stood out in pleasant contrast to the rest, trim and smart and dainty as though such a thing as fatigue did not exist. Mrs Fanshawe, looking at her, stopped short in the middle of a mental grumble, and turned it round, so that it ended in being a thanksgiving instead.

"Most neglectful of Erskine to fail me after promising he would come...

Perhaps, after all, it's just as well he did not."

And at that moment, with the usual contrariety of fate, Erskine appeared! He came striding along the platform, a big, loosely-built man, with a clean-shaven face, glancing to right and left over the upstanding collar of a tweed coat. He looked at once plain and distinguished, and in the quizzical eyes and beetling eyebrows there was an unmistakable likeness to the _grande dame_ standing by Claire's side.

Just for a moment he paused, as he came in sight of the group of pa.s.sengers, and Claire, meeting his glance, knew who he was, even before he came forward and made his greeting.

"Holla, Mater! Sorry to be late. Not my fault this time. I was ready all right, but the car did not come round. Had a good crossing?"

"My dear, appalling! Don't talk of it. I was prostrate all night, and Mason too ill to do anything but moan. She's been no use."

"Poor beggar! She looks pretty green. But-- er--" The plain face lighted with an expectant smile as he turned towards the girl who stood by his mother's side, still holding the precious bag. "You seem to have met a friend..."

"Oh--er--yes!" With a gesture of regal graciousness Mrs Fanshawe turned towards the girl, and held out her gloved hand. "Thank you _so_ much, Miss Gifford! You've been quite too kind. I'm really horribly in your debt. I hope you will find everything as you like, and have a very good time. Thank you again. _Good-bye_. I'm really dropping with fatigue. What a relief it will be to get to bed!" She turned aside, and laid her hand on her son's arm. "Erskine, where _is_ the car?"

Mother and son turned away, and made their way down the platform, leaving Claire with crimson cheeks and fast-beating heart. The little scene which had just happened had been all too easy to understand. The nice son had wished for an introduction to the nice girl who a moment before had seemed on such intimate terms with his mother: the mother had been quite determined that such an introduction should not take place.

Claire knew enough of the world to realise how different would have been the proceedings if she had announced herself as a member of the "idle rich," bound for a course of visits to well-known houses in the country.

"May I introduce my son, Miss Gifford? Miss Gifford has been an angel of goodness to me, Erskine. Positively I don't know what I should have done without her! Do look after her now, and see her into a taxi. Such a mercy to have a man to help!" That was what would have happened to the Claire Gifford of a week before, but now for the first time Claire experienced a taste of the disagreeables attendant on her changed circ.u.mstances, and it was bitter to her mouth. All very well to remind herself that work was honourable, that anyone who looked down on her for choosing to be independent was not worth a moment's thought, the fact remained that for the first, the very first time in her life she had been made to feel that there was a barrier between herself and a member of her own cla.s.s, and that, however willing Mrs Fanshawe might be to introduce her to a casual friend, she was unwilling to make her known to her own son!

Claire stood stiff and poker-like at her post, determined to make no movement until Mrs Fanshawe and her attendants had taken their departure. The storm of indignation and wounded pride which was surging through her veins distracted her mind from her surroundings; she was dimly conscious that one after another, her fellow-pa.s.sengers had taken their departure, preceded by a porter trundling a truck of luggage; conscious that where there had been a crowd, there was now a s.p.a.ce, until eventually with a shock of surprise she discovered that she was standing alone, by her own little pile of boxes. At that she shook herself impatiently, beckoned to a porter and was about to walk ahead, when an uneasy suspicion made itself felt. The luggage! Something was wrong. The pile looked smaller than it had done ten minutes before.

She made a rapid circuit, and made a horrible discovery. A box was missing! The dress-box containing the skirts of all her best frocks, spread at full length and carefully padded with tissue paper. It had been there ten minutes ago; the custom-house officer had given it a special rap. She distinctly remembered noticing a new scratch on the leather. Where in the name of everything that was inexplicable could it have disappeared? Appealed to for information the porter was not illuminating. "If it had been there before, why wasn't it there now?

Was the lady _sure_ she had seen it? Might have been left behind at Antwerp or Parkeston. Better telegraph and see! If it had been there before, why wasn't it there now? Mistakes did happen. Boxes were much alike. P'raps it was left in the van. If it was there ten minutes before, why wasn't it--"

Claire stopped him with an imperious hand.

"That's enough! It _was_ there: I saw it. I counted the pieces before the custom-house officer came along. I noticed it especially. Someone must have taken it by mistake."

The porter shook his head darkly.

"On purpose, more like! Funny people crosses by this route. Funny thing that you didn't notice--"

Claire found nothing funny in the reflection. She was furious with herself for her carelessness, and still more furious with Mrs Fanshawe as the cause thereof. Down the platform she stalked, a picture of vivid impetuous youth, head thrown back, cheeks aflame, grey eyes sending out flashes of indignation. Every porter who came in her way was stopped and imperiously questioned as to his late load, every porter was in his turn waved impatiently away. Claire was growing seriously alarmed.

Suppose the box was lost! It would be as bad as losing _two_ boxes, for of what use were bodices minus skirts to match? Never again would she be guilty of the folly of packing bits of the same costumes in different boxes. How awful--how awful beyond words to arrive in London without a decent dress to wear!

Whirling suddenly round to pursue yet another porter, Claire became aware of a figure in a long tweed coat standing on the s.p.a.ce beside the taxi-stand, intently watching her movements. She recognised him in a moment as none other than "Erskine" himself, who, having seen his mother into her car, was presumably bound for another destination. But why was he standing there? Why had he been so long in moving away? Claire hastily averted her eyes, but as she cross-questioned porter number four, she was aware that the tall figure was drawing nearer, and presently he was standing by her side, taking off his hat, and saying in the most courteous and deferential of tones--

"Excuse me--I'm afraid something is wrong! Can I be of any a.s.sistance?"

Claire's glance was frigid in its coldness; but it was difficult to remain frigid in face of the man's obvious sincerity and kindliness.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Please don't trouble. I can manage quite well. It's only a trunk..."

"Is it lost? I say--what a f.a.g! Do let me help. I know this station by heart! If it is to be found, I am sure I can get it for you."

This time there was a distinct air of appeal in his deep voice. Claire divined that the nice man was anxious to atone for his mother's cavalier behaviour, and her heart softened towards him. After all, why should she punish herself by refusing? Five minutes more or less on the station platform could make no difference one way or another, for at the end they would wish each other a polite adieu, and part never to meet again. And she _did_ want that box!

She smiled, and sighed, and looked delightfully pretty and appealing, as she said frankly--

"Thank you, I _should_ be grateful for suggestions. It's the most extraordinary and provoking thing--"

They walked slowly down the platform while she explained the situation, and reiterated the fact that she had seen the box ten minutes before.

Erskine Fanshawe did not dispute the statement as each porter had done before him; he contented himself with asking if there was any distinctive feature in the appearance of the box itself.

Claire shook her head.

"The ordinary brown leather, with strappings and C.G. on one side. Just like a thousand other boxes, but it had a label, beside the initials. I don't see how anyone can have taken it by mistake." She set her teeth, and her head took a defiant tilt. "There's one comfort; if it _is_ stolen, whoever has taken it will not get much for her pains! There's nothing in it but skirts. Skirts won't be much good without the bodices to match!"

The man looked down at her, his expression comically compounded of sympathy and humour. At that moment, despite the irregularity of his features, he looked wonderfully like his handsome mother.

"Er--just so! Unfortunately, however, from the opposite point of view, you find yourself in the same position! Bodices, I presume, without skirts--"

Claire groaned, and held up a protesting hand.