Читать книгу The Independence of Claire - Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey - Страница 5

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 was not curious. She was content to close the green shutters of her windows, slip into a muslin wrapper, and employ herself at some simple piece of needlework, which kept her hands busy while leaving her thoughts free.

Where would she be this time next year? It was a question which no mortal can answer with certainty, but many of us are happy in the probability that we shall be still living in the same dear home, surrounded by the people and the objects which we love, whereas Claire’s one certainty was that she must move on to fresh scenes. Bombay or London—that seemed the choice ahead! Matrimony or teaching. On the one hand a luxurious home, carriages and horses, a staff of servants, and apparently as much society as one desired, with the incubus of a husband whom she did not love, and who was twenty years her senior. On the other hand, work and poverty, with the advantages of freedom and independence.

Claire’s eyes brightened at the sound of those two words, for dear as liberty is to the heart of an Englishwoman, it was in prospect dearer still to this girl who had been educated in a country still enslaved by chaperonage, and had never known a taste of real freedom of action. Mrs. Gifford had been as strict as or stricter than any Belgian mother, being rightly determined that no breath of scandal should touch her daughter’s name; therefore wherever Claire went, some responsible female went with her. She was chaperoned to church, chaperoned on her morning constitutional, a chaperon sat on guard during the period of music and drawing lessons, and at their conclusion escorted her back to the Pension. What wonder that the thought of life as a bachelor girl in London seemed full of a thrilling excitement!

Suppose for one minute that she decided on London—what would become of mother? Again and again Claire asked herself this question, again and again she recalled the interview between herself and the headmistress, Miss Farnborough, when the subject of teaching had been discussed. It had happened one morning in the salon of the Pension, when Claire had been coaching an English visitor in preparation for a French interview which lay ahead, and Miss Farnborough, laying down her book, had listened with smiling interest. Then the Englishwoman left the room, and Miss Farnborough had said, “You did that very cleverly; very cleverly indeed! You have a very happy knack of putting things simply and forcibly. I’ve noticed it more than once. Have you ever done any teaching?”

“None professionally,” Claire had replied with a laugh, “but a great deal by chance. I seem to drift into the position of coach to most of the English visitors here. It pleases them, and it interests me. And I used to help the French girls with their English at school.”

Then Miss Farnborough had inquired with interest as to the details of Claire’s education, the schools she had attended, the examinations she had passed, and finally had come the critical question, “Have you ever thought of taking up teaching as a profession?”

Claire had never thought of taking up work of any kind, but the suggestion roused a keen interest, as one of the temporary “tight” times was in process, so that the prospect of money-making seemed particularly agreeable. She discussed the subject carefully, and out of that discussion had arisen the final offer of a post.

The junior French mistress in the High School of which Miss Farnborough was head was leaving at midsummer. If Claire wished she could take her place, at a salary beginning at a hundred and ten pounds a year. In Trust Schools, of which Saint Cuthbert’s was one, there was no fixed scale of advancement, but a successful teacher could reach a salary of, say, two hundred a year by the time she was thirty-eight or forty, as against the permanent sixty or seventy offered to mistresses in residential schools of a higher grade. Miss Farnborough’s mistresses were women trained at the various universities; the school itself was situated in a fashionable neighbourhood, and its pupils were for the most part daughters of professional men, and gentlefolk of moderate incomes. There was no pension scheme, and mistresses had to live out, but with care and economy they could take out some insurance to provide for old age.

Claire took little interest in her own old age, which seemed too far away to count, but she was intensely interested in the immediate future, and had been hurt and annoyed when her mother had waved aside the proposal as unworthy of serious consideration. And now, only three months after Miss Farnborough’s departure, the crisis had arisen, and that hundred and ten pounds assumed a vastly increased value. Supposing that the post was accepted, and mother and daughter started life in London with a capital of between two and three hundred pounds, and a salary of one hundred and ten, as regular income—how long would the nest-egg last out?

Judging from the experience of past years, a very short time indeed, and what would happen after that? Claire had read gruesome tales of the struggles of women in like positions, overtaken by illness, losing the salaries which represented their all, brought face to face with actual starvation, and in the midst of the midsummer heat, little shivers of fear trickled up and down her spine as she realised how easily she and her mother might drift into a like position.

Then, on the other hand, Bombay! Indian houses were large; mother could have her own rooms. In the hot weather they would go together to the hills, leaving Mr. Judge behind. How long did the hot season last, four or five months? Nearly half the year, perhaps. It would be only half as bad as marrying a man for money in Europe, for you would get rid of him all that time! Claire shrugged her shoulders and laughed, and two minutes later whisked away a tear, dedicated to the memory of girlish dreams. Useless to dream any longer, she was awake now, and must face life in a sensible manner. Her duty was to marry Robert Judge, and to make a home for her mother.

Another girl might have cherished anger against the recklessness which had landed her in such a trap, but after the first shock of discovery there had been no resentment in Claire’s heart. She implicitly believed her mother’s assurance that according to her light she had acted for the best, and echoed with heartiness the assertion that the money had provided a good time for thirteen long years.

They had not been rich, but there had been a feeling of sufficiency. They had had comfortable quarters, pretty clothes, delightful holiday journeys, a reasonable amount of gaiety, and, over and beyond all, the advantages of an excellent education. Claire’s happy nature remembered her benefits, and made short work of the rest. Poor, beautiful mother! who could expect her to be prudent and careful, like any ordinary, prosaic, middle-aged woman?

Even as the thought passed through the girl’s mind the door of the bedroom opened, and Mrs. Gifford appeared on the threshold. She wore a large shady hat, and in the dim light of the room her face was not clearly visible, but there was a tone in her voice which aroused Claire’s instant curiosity. Mother was trying to speak in her ordinary voice, but she was nervous, she was agitated. She was not feeling ordinary at all.

“Claire, chérie, we are going to the forest to have tea. It is impossibly hot indoors, but it will be delightful under the trees. Mr. Judge has sent for a fiacre, and Miss Benson has asked to come too. Put on your blue muslin and your big hat. Be quick, darling! I’ll fasten you up.”

“I’d rather not go, thank you, mother. I’m quite happy here. Don’t trouble about me!”

Mrs. Gifford was obviously discomposed. She hesitated, frowned, walked restlessly up and down, then spoke again with an added note of insistence—

“But I want you to come, Claire. I’ve not troubled you before, because I saw you wanted to be alone, but—it can’t go on. Mr. Judge wants you to come. He suggested the drive because he thought it would tempt you. If you refuse to-day, he will ask you again to-morrow. I think, dear, you ought to come.”

Claire was silent. She felt sick and faint; all over her body little pulses seemed to be whizzing like so many alarm clocks, all crying in insistent voices, “Time’s up! Time’s up! No more lazing. Up with you, and do your duty!” Her forehead felt very damp and her throat felt very dry, and she heard a sharp disagreeable voice saying curtly—

“Oh, certainly, I will come. No need to make a fuss. I can dress myself, thank you. I’ll come down when I’m ready!”

Mrs. Gifford turned without a word and went out of the room, but Claire was too busy being sorry for herself to have sympathy to spare for anyone else. She threw off her wrapper and slipped into the cool muslin dress which was at once so simple, and so essentially French and up-to-date, and then, throwing open the door of a cupboard, stared at a long row of hats ranged on a top shelf, and deliberately selected the one which she considered the least becoming.

“I will not be decked up for the sacrifice!” she muttered rebelliously, then bent forward, so that her face approached close to the flushed, frowning reflection in the glass. “You are going to be proposed to, my dear!” she said scornfully. “You are going to be good and sensible, and say ‘Yes, please!’ When you see yourself next, you will be Engaged! It won’t be dear little Claire Gifford any more, it will be the horrible future Mrs. Robert Judge!”

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 again, appealing to her in earnest tones.

“You won’t range yourself against me, Claire? You won’t dissuade her.—I love her very dearly, and I know I can make her happy. You won’t make it hard for us?”

“Indeed, I won’t! Why should I?” Claire cried heartily. “I’m only too thankful. Mother needs someone to look after her, and I’d sooner you did it than anyone else. I like you awfully—always did, until I began to be afraid—I didn’t want to marry you myself, but if mother does, I think it’s a splendid thing.”

“Thank you, dear, thank you a thousand times. That’s a great relief.” Robert Judge stretched himself with a deep breath of satisfaction. Then he grew confidential, reviewing the past with true lover-like enjoyment.

“I fell in love with her that first afternoon at the tennis club. Thought Bridges introduced her as Miss Gifford, put her down at twenty-five, and hoped she wouldn’t think me a hopeless old fogey. Never had such a surprise in my life as when she introduced you. Thought for a time I should have to give it up. Then she asked my advice on one or two business matters, and I discovered—” He hesitated, flushing uncomfortably, and Claire finished the sentence.

“That we are coming to the end of our resources?”

Mr. Judge nodded.

“And so, of course,” he continued simply, “that settled it. I couldn’t go away and leave her to face a struggle. I was jolly thankful to feel that I had met her in time.”

“I think you are a dear, good man. I think mother is very lucky. Thank you so much for being my step-papa!” cried Claire, her grey eyes softening with a charming friendliness as they dwelt on the man’s honest face, and he took her hand in his, and squeezed it with affectionate ardour.

“Thank you, my dear. Thank you! I shall be jolly proud of having such a pretty daughter. I’m not a rich man, but I am comfortably well-off, and I’ll do my best to give you a good time. Your mother feels sure she will enjoy the Indian life. Most girls think it great fun. And of course I have lots of friends.”

Claire stared at him, a new seriousness dawning in her eyes. She looked very pretty and very young, and not a little pathetic into the bargain. For the first time since the realisation of her mistake the personal application of the situation burst upon her, and a chill crept through her veins. If she herself had married Robert Judge, her mother would have made her home with them as a matter of course; but it was by no means a matter of course that she should make her home with her mother. She stared into the honest face of the man before her—the man who was not rich, the man who was in love for the first time in his life, and a smile twisted the corner of her lips.

“Mr. Judge, if I ask you a question, will you promise to give me an absolutely honest answer?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Well, then, will you like having a third person living with you all the time?”

Up to the man’s forehead rushed the treacherous blood. He frowned, he scowled, he opened his lips to protest; but that flush had answered for him, and Claire refused to listen. “No, no—don’t! Of course you wouldn’t. Who would, in your place? Poor darlings—I quite understand. You are middle-aged, you know, though you feel about nineteen, and mother is prettier and more charming than half the girl brides. And you will want to be just as young and foolish as you like, not to be obliged to be sensible because a grown-up daughter is there all the time, staring at you with big eyes? I should be in the way, and I should feel in the way, and—”

Mr. Judge interrupted in an urgent voice:

“Look here, Claire, I don’t think you ought to corner me like this. It’s not fair. I’ve told you that I am prepared to do everything for your happiness. You ought surely to realise that I—”

“And you ought to realise that I—” Claire broke off suddenly, and held out her hand with a charming smile. “Oh, but there’s plenty of time—we can arrange all that later on. Let’s go and find mother and put her out of her misery. She will be longing to see us come back.”

They walked down the avenue together, and, as they went, Claire turned her head from side to side, taking in the well-known scene with wistful intensity. How many times would she see it again? As she had said, many discussions would certainly take place as to her future destination, but she knew in her heart that the result was sure. Providence had decided or her. The future was London and work!