Miss Farnborough was spending the Christmas abroad; the other mistresses were either visiting or entertaining relations, the ladies of the committee were presumably making merry each in her own sphere. It was no one’s business to look after the new member of the staff out of term time, and no one troubled to make it her business.
The only friendly sound which reached Claire’s ears during those days was the striking of the cuckoo clock, as a minute before every hour a sliding door flew open, and a little brown bird popped out and piped the due number of cuckoos in a clear, sweet note. Claire loved that little bird; the sight of him brought a warmth to her heart, which was as sunshine lighting up the grey winter days. Someone had remembered! Someone had cared! In the midst of a merry holiday, time and thought had been spared for her benefit.
The presence of the cuckoo clock preserved Claire from personal suffering, but during that silent week there was borne in upon her a realisation of the loneliness of the great city which was never obliterated. A girl like herself, coming to London without introductions, might lead this desert life, not for a week alone, but for years! Her youth might fade, might pass away, she might grow middle-aged and old, and still pass to and fro through crowded street, unnoted, uncared for, unknown beyond the boundaries of the schoolroom or the office walls. A working-woman was as a rule too tired and too poor to join societies, or take part in social work which would lead to the making of friends; she was dependent on the thoughtfulness of her leisured sisters, and the leisured sisters were too apt to forget. They invited their own well-off friends, exhausted themselves in organising entertainments which were often regarded as bores pure and simple, and cast no thought to the lonely women sitting night after night in lodging-house parlours. “If I am ever rich—if I ever have a home, I’ll remember!” Claire vowed to herself. “I’ll take a little trouble, and find out! I couldn’t do a hundredth or a thousandth part of what ought to be done, but I’d do my share!” Cecil announced her return for the evening of January 2nd, and remindful of the depressing influence of her own arrival, Claire exerted herself to make the room look as homelike as possible, and arranged a dainty little meal on a table spread with a clean cloth and decorated with a bowl of holly and Christmas roses. At the first sound of Cecil’s voice she ran out into the hall, hugged her warmly, and relieved her of a bundle of packages of all sorts and sizes.
“You look a real Mother Christmas hidden behind parcels. What are they all? Trophies? You have come off well! It is lovely to see you back. If you’d stayed away the whole time I think I should have grown dumb. My tongue would have withered from sheer lack of use. I never realised before how much I love to talk. I do hope you feel sociable. I want to talk and talk for hours at a time, and to hear you talk, too.”
“Even to grumble?”
Claire grinned eloquently.
“Oh, well—if you must, but it would be rather mean, wouldn’t it, after a holiday, and when I’ve got everything so nice? I am driven to praise myself, because you take no notice.”
“You have given me no time. You chatter so that no one else can get in a word.” Cecil took off hat and gloves, and threw them down on the sofa. “I must say your looks don’t pity you. You look as if you had been enjoying yourself all right. That kettle’s boiling! I’m dying for a cup of tea! Let’s have it at once, and talk comfortably.” She seated herself by the table, and helped herself to a buttered scone. “What did you do on Christmas Day?”
“The Willoughbys asked me. I went to church with them, and stayed until eleven.”
“Anything going on, or just the ordinary family frumps?”