She stuck hat-pins through the straw hat with savage energy; for once in her life noticed with distinct satisfaction that it was secured at an unbecoming angle, then, hearing through the jalousies the sound of approaching wheels, marched resolutely forth to meet her fate …
In the fiacre Mrs. Gifford and Miss Benson took the seats of honour, leaving Claire and Mr. Judge to sit side by side, and the one furtive glance which she cast in his direction showed him looking confident and unperturbed. Just like a French prétendu, already assured by Maman that Mademoiselle was meekly waiting to assent to his suit!
“He might at least pay me the compliment of pretending! It is dreadfully dull to be taken for granted,” reflected Claire in disgust.
The next hour was a horrible experience. Everything happened exactly as Claire had known it would, from the moment the quartette set forth. Arrived at the forest, they took possession of one of the little tables beneath the trees, and made fitful conversation the while they consumed delicious cakes and execrable tea. Then the meal being finished, Mrs. Gifford and her companion announced a wish to sit still and rest, while Mr. Judge nervously invited Miss Claire to accompany him in a walk. She assented, of course; what was the use of putting it off? and as soon as they were well started, he spied another seat, and insisted upon sitting down once more.
“Now he’ll begin,” thought Claire desperately. “He’ll talk about India, and being lonely, and say how happy he has felt since he’s been here,” and even as the thought passed through her mind, Mr. Judge began to speak.
“Awfully jolly old forest this is—awfully nice place Brussels, altogether. Nicest place in the world. Never been so happy in my life as I’ve been the last month. Of course, naturally, you must realise that, when a fellow hangs on week after week, there—er, there must be some special attraction. Not that it isn’t a rattling old city, and all that!” Mr. Judge was growing a little mixed: his voice sounded flurried and nervous, but Claire was not in the least inclined to help him. She sat rigid as a poker, staring stolidly ahead. There was not the ghost of a dimple in her soft pink cheeks.
“I—er, your mother tells me that she has said nothing to you, but she is sure, all the same, that you suspect. I asked her to let me speak to you to-day. Naturally she feels the difficulty. She is devoted to you. You know that, of course. I have told her that I will make your happiness my special charge. There is nothing in the world I would not do to ensure it. You know that too, don’t you, Claire?”
He stretched out his hand and touched her tentatively on the arm, but Claire drew herself back with a prickly dignity. If he wanted to propose at all, he must propose properly; she was not going to commit herself in response to an insinuation.
“You are very kind. I am quite happy as I am.”
“Er—yes—yes, of course, but—but things don’t go on, you know, can’t go on always without a change!”
Mr. Judge took off his straw hat, twirled it nervously to and fro, and laid it down on the bench by his side. Claire, casting a quick glance, noticed that his hair was growing noticeably thin on the temples, and felt an additional sinking of spirits.
“Claire!” cried the man desperately, “don’t let us beat about the bush. I’m not used to this sort of thing—don’t make it harder than you need! You have noticed, haven’t you? You know what I want to tell you?”
Claire nodded dumbly. In the case of previous Belgian admirers affairs had been checked before they reached the extreme stage, and she found this, her first spoken proposal much less exciting than she had expected. As a friend pure and simple, she had thoroughly liked Mr. Judge, and at the bottom of her heart there lived a lingering hope that perhaps if he loved her very much, and expressed his devotion in very eloquent words, her heart might soften in response. But so far he had not even mentioned love! She was silent for several minutes, and when she did speak it was to ask a side question.
“Is mother willing to go to India?”
She was looking at the man as she spoke, and the change which passed over his face, startled her by its intensity. His eyes shone, the rugged features were transfigured by a very radiance of joy. He looked young at that moment, young and handsome, and blissfully content. Claire stared at him in amazement, not unmingled with irritation. Even if mother were willing, her own consent had still to be obtained. It was tactless to make so sure!
Her own face looked decidedly sulky as she twitched round on her seat, and resumed her stolid staring into space. Again there was silence, till a hand stretched out to clasp her arm, and a voice spoke in deep appealing accents—
“Claire, dear child, you are young; you have never known loneliness or disappointment. We have! Happiness is fifty times more precious, when it comes to those who have suffered. You would not be cruel enough to damp our happiness! You can do it, you know, if you persist in an attitude of coldness and disapproval. I don’t say you can destroy it. Thank God! it goes too deep for anyone to be able to do that. But you can rub off the bloom. Don’t do it, Claire! Be generous. Be yourself. Wish us good luck!”
“Wish who good luck? What, oh, what are you talking about?” Claire was gasping now, quivering with a frenzy of excitement. Robert Judge stared in return, his face full of an honest bewilderment.
“Of our engagement, of course. Your mother’s engagement to me. I have been talking about it all the time!”
Then Claire threw up both her hands, and burst into a wild peal of laughter. Peal after peal rang out into the air, she rocked to and fro on her seat, her eyes disappeared from view, her teeth shone, her little feet in their dainty French shoes danced upon the ground; she laughed till the tears poured down her cheeks, and her gloved hands pressed against her side where a “stitch” was uncomfortably making itself felt. Stout Belgian couples passing past the end of the avenue, looked on with indulgent smiles, a little shocked at so much demonstration in public, but relieved to perceive that une Anglaise could laugh with such abandon. Monsieur they observed looked not sympathetic. Monsieur had an air injured, annoyed, on his dignity. On his cheeks was a flush, as of wounded pride. When at length the paroxysm showed signs of lessening, he spoke in cold stilted tones.
“You appear to find it ridiculous. It seems to amuse you very much. I may say that to us it is a serious matter!”
“Oh no! You don’t understand—you don’t understand!” gasped Claire feebly. “I am not laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself. Oh, Mr. Judge, you’ll never guess, it’s too screamingly funny for words. I thought all this time, from the very beginning I thought, it was me!”
“You thought it was—you thought I wanted—that I was talking of—that I meant to propose to—”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Me! Me! Me! Of course I did. I’ve been thinking it for weeks. Everyone thought so. They’ve teased me to death. You were attentive to me, you know you were. You were always giving me things …”
“Well, of course!” Poor Mr. Judge defended himself with honest indignation. “What else could I do? I could not give them to her! And I wanted—naturally I wanted, to get you on my side. You were the difficulty. I knew that if she had only herself to consider I could win her round, but if you ranged yourself against me, it would be a hard fight. Naturally I tried to ingratiate myself. It appears that I have rather overdone the part, but I can’t flatter myself,” his eyes twinkled mischievously, “that I’ve been too successful! You don’t appear exactly overcome with disappointment!”
They laughed together, but only for a moment. Then he was serious