“Oh no. I have some shares. They have been worthless for years, but just lately they have gone up. I was asking Mr. Judge about them yesterday. He says I might get between two and three hundred pounds. They were worth a thousand, years ago.”
Claire brightened with the quick relief of youth. Two or three hundred English pounds were a considerable improvement on a debit account. With two or three hundred pounds much might yet be done. Thousands of people had built up great fortunes on smaller foundations. In a vague, indefinite fashion she determined to devote these last pounds to settling herself in some business, which would ensure a speedy and generous return. School teaching was plainly out of the question, since two gentlewomen could not exist on a hundred and ten pounds a year. She must think of something quicker, more lucrative.
All through dinner that evening Claire debated her future vocation as she sat by her mother’s side, halfway down the long dining-table which to English eyes appeared so bare and unattractive, but which was yet supplied with the most appetising of food. Claire’s eyes were accustomed to the lack of pretty detail; she had quite an affection for the Pension which stood for home in her migratory life, and a real love for Madame Dupre, the cheery, kindly, most capable proprietor. Such of the pensionnaires as were not purely birds of passage she regarded as friends rather than acquaintances; the only person in the room to whom she felt any antagonism was Mr. Judge himself, but unfortunately he was the one of all others whom she was expected to like best.
As she ate her salad and broke fragments of delicious crusty roll, Claire threw furtive glances across the table at the man who for the last weeks had exercised so disturbing an element in her life. Was it six weeks or two months, since she and her mother had first made his acquaintance at the tennis club at which they spent so many of their afternoons? Claire had noticed that a new man had been present on that occasion, had bestowed on him one critical glance, decided with youthful arrogance: “Oh, quite old!” and promptly forgotten his existence, until an hour later, when, as she was sitting in the pavilion enjoying the luxury of a real English tea, the strange man and her mother had entered side by side. Claire summoned in imagination the picture of her mother as she had looked at that moment, slim and graceful in the simplest of white dresses, an untrimmed linen hat shading her charming face. She looked about twenty-five, and Claire was convinced that she knew as much, and that it was a mischievous curiosity to see her companion’s surprise which prompted her to lead the way across the floor, and formally introduce “My daughter!”
Mr. Judge exhibited all the expected signs of bewilderment, but he made himself exceedingly amiable to the daughter, and it was not until a week later that it was discovered that he had concluded that the relationship must surely be “step,” when fresh explanations were made, and all the bewilderment came over again.
Since then, oh, since then, Claire told herself, there had been no getting away from the man! He was, it appeared, an Indian merchant spending a few months on the Continent, at the conclusion of a year’s leave. He had come to Brussels because of the presence of an old school friend—the same friend who was responsible for the introduction at the tennis club—but week after week passed by, and he showed no disposition to move on.
Now Brussels is a very gay and interesting little city, but when Paris looms ahead, and Berlin, Vienna, to say nothing of the beauties of Switzerland and the Tyrol, and the artistic treasures of Italy—well! it did seem out of proportion to waste six whole weeks in that one spot!
At the end of the last fortnight, too, Mr. Judge declared that he was sick to death of hotels and lonely evenings in smoking rooms, and approached Madame Dupre with a view to joining the party at Villa Beau Séjour. Madame was delighted to receive him, but Claire Gifford told her mother resentfully that she considered Mr. Judge’s behaviour “very cool.” How did he know that it would be pleasant for them to have him poking about morning, noon, and night?
“It isn’t our Pension, darling, and he is very nice to you,” Mrs. Gifford had said in return, and as it was impossible to contradict either statement, Claire had tossed her head, and relapsed into silence.
For the first weeks of her acquaintance with Mr. Judge, Claire had thoroughly enjoyed his attentions. It was agreeable to know a man who had a habit of noting your wishes, and then setting to work to bring them about forthwith, and who was also delightfully extravagant as regards flowers, and seemed to grow chocolates in his coat pockets. It was only when he spoke of moving to the Pension, and her girl friends at the tennis club began to tease, roll meaning eyes, and ask when she was to be congratulated, that she took fright.
Did people really think that she was going to marry Mr. Judge?
Lately things had moved on apace, and as a result of the unwelcome revelations of the morning’s post, Claire was to-day asking herself a different question. She was no longer occupied with other people; she was thinking of herself … “Am I going to marry Mr. Judge? Oh, good gracious, is that My Husband sitting over there, and have I got to live with him every day, as long as we both shall live?”
She shuddered at the thought, but in truth there was nothing to shudder at in Robert Judge’s appearance. He was a man of forty, bronzed, and wiry, with agreeable if not regular features. Round his eyes the skin was deeply furrowed, but the eyes themselves were bright and youthful, and the prevailing expression was one of sincerity and kindliness. He wore a loose grey tweed suit, with a soft-coloured shirt which showed a length of brown neck. The fingers of his right band were deeply stained with tobacco. During déjeuner he carried on a conversation with his right-hand companion, in exceedingly bad French, but ever and anon he glanced across the table as though his thoughts were not on his words. Once, on looking up suddenly, Claire found his eyes fixed upon herself, with a strained, anxious look, and her heart quickened as she looked, then sank down heavy as lead.
“It’s coming!” she said to herself. “It’s coming! There’s no running away. I’ll have to stay, and see it out. Oh, why can’t I be French, and sensible? I ought to be thankful to marry such a kind, good man, and be able to give mother a comfortable home!”
But as a matter of fact she was neither glad nor thankful. Despite her French training, the English instinct survived and clamoured for liberty, for independence. “It’s my own life. If I marry at all, I want to choose the man for no other reason than that I love him; not as a duty, and to please somebody else!” Then she glanced at her mother sitting by her side, slim, and graceful, with the little air of pathos and helplessness which even strangers found so appealing, and as she did so, a shiver passed through Claire’s veins.
“But I’ll have to do it!” she said to herself helplessly. “I’ll have to do it!”
Chapter Two.
Too successful!
The next few days passed by slowly enough. It is a great trial for a young creature to realise that a change is inevitable and, at the same time, that one must be cautious about making it. The impulse is always to rush into action, and it is difficult to sit still and agree with the elderly precept in favour of consideration and delay. If matters had been left to Claire she would have started out forthwith to search for a cheap Pension, and would have also despatched a letter to Miss Farnborough by the first post, to inquire if the school post were still open, but her mother vetoed both proposals, and pleaded so urgently for delay, that there was nothing left but to agree, and compose herself as best she might.
The weather was too hot for tennis, and in truth Claire was not in the mood for games. With every hour she realised more keenly that she had come to the parting of the ways, and in the prospect of a new life old interests lost their savour. Her mother seemed to share her restlessness, but while Claire preferred to stay indoors, in the privacy of her own room, Mrs. Gifford seemed to find relief in action, and was often out for hours at a time, without vouchsafing any explanation of her absence.
Claire