The Independence of Claire by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  The Independence of Claire

  By Mrs George de Horne Vaizey________________________________________________________________________This is a rather typical Horne Vaizey book, about the life led by youngwell-brought-up women in Edwardian times. Worries about money, aboutwho to marry, whether to go or not to parties to be given by elderlyhostesses, about clothes, about hair-styles, and even, as so often inthis author's books, with a bit of illness thrown in as well.

  There's a time when Claire seems on the way to making a big mistake, butit all gets sorted out in the end. Make an audiobook of this book -that is probably the best way to enjoy it.________________________________________________________________________THE INDEPENDENCE OF CLAIRE

  BY MRS. GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY

  CHAPTER ONE.

  "I'LL HAVE TO DO IT."

  Claire Gifford stood in the salon of the Brussels pension which had beenher home for the last three years, and bent her brows in considerationof an all-absorbing problem. "Can I marry him?" she asked herself onceand again, with the baffling result that every single time her brainanswered instantly, "_You must_!" the while her heart rose up inrebellion, and cried, "I won't!" Many girls have found themselves inthe same predicament before and since, but few have had stronger reasonsfor sacrificing personal inclination on the altar of filial duty thanClaire knew at this minute.

  To begin with, the relationship between herself and her mother was moreintimate than is usually the case, for Claire was an only child, andMrs Gifford a widow only eighteen years older than herself. Brieflystated, the family history was as follows--Eleanor Guyther had been theonly child of stern, old-world parents, and at seventeen had run awayfrom the house which had been more like a prison than a home, to marry ahandsome young artist who had been painting in the neighbourhood duringthe summer months; a handsome merry-faced boy of twenty-one, whoseportrait Claire treasured in an old-fashioned gold locket, long sincediscarded by her mother, who followed the fashion in jewellery as wellas in dress. It was strange to look at the face of a father who was noolder than oneself, and Claire had spent many hours gazing at thepictured face, and trying to gain from it some idea of the personalityof the man of whom her mother persistently refused to speak.

  Mrs Gifford shrank from all disagreeables, great and small, andsystematically turned her back on anything which was disturbing orpainful, so that it was only from chance remarks that her daughter hadgained any information about the past. She knew that her father hadbeen a successful artist, although not in the highest sense of the term.He had a trick of turning out pretty domestic pictures which appealedto the taste of the million, and which, being purchased by enterprisingdealers, were reproduced in cheap prints to deck the walls of suburbanparlours. While he lived he made a sufficient income, and before hisdeath a formal reconciliation had taken place between the runawaydaughter and her north-country parents, from whom she later inheritedthe money which had supported herself and her daughter throughout theyears of her widowhood.

  Claire had the vaguest idea as to the amount of her mother's means, foruntil the last few years the question of money had never arisen, theyhad simply decided what they wished to do, without considering the cost,but of late there had been seasons of financial tightness, and themorning on which this history begins had brought a most disagreeableawakening.

  Mrs Gifford was seated in the salon staring disconsolately at a notewhich had just arrived by the afternoon post. It was a verydisagreeable note, for it stated in brief and callous terms that heraccount at the bank was overdrawn to the extent of three hundred francs,and politely requested that the deficit should be made good. Clairelooked flushed and angry; Mrs Gifford looked pathetic and pale.

  It seemed, in the first place, quite ludicrous that such a relationshipas that of mother and daughter should exist between two women who lookedso nearly of an age, and Mrs Gifford's youthful appearance was astanding joke in the Pension. Every new visitor was questioned byMadame as to the relationship between the two English ladies, and neverhad one of the number failed to reply "sisters," and to be convulsedwith astonishment when corrected; and in good truth Mrs Gifford was awonderful specimen of the prolonged youth which is a phenomenon of thepresent day.

  She was slight, she was graceful, her waving brown hair was as naturallyluxuriant as that of a girl, her complexion was smooth and fair, herpretty features were unchanged, she dressed with good taste, and, thoughsecretly proud of her youthful looks, was never so foolish as to adoptkittenish airs to match. Her manner was quiet, gracious, appealing; alittle air of pathos enveloped her like a mist; on strangers she madethe impression of a lovely creature who had known suffering. Everybodywas kind to Mrs Gifford, and she in return had never been known toutter an unkind word. She had been born with the faculty of lovingeverybody a little, and no one very much, which--if one comes to thinkof it--is the most powerful of all factors towards securing an easylife, since it secures the owner from the possibility of keen personalsuffering.

  At the present moment Mrs Gifford did, however, look really perturbed,for, after shutting her eyes to a disagreeable fact, and keeping themshut with much resolution and--it must be added--ease, for many yearspast, she was now driven to face the truth, and to break it to herdaughter into the bargain.

  "But I don't understand!" Claire repeated blankly. "How _can_ themoney be gone? We have spent no more this year than for years past. Ishould think we have spent less. I haven't been extravagant a bit. Youoffered me a new hat only last week, and I said I could do without--"

  "Yes, yes, of course. It's quite true, _cherie_, you have been mostgood. But, you see, ours has not been a case of an income that goes onyear after year--it never was, even from the beginning. There was notenough. And you _did_ have a good education, didn't you? I sparednothing on it. It's folly to stint on a girl's education.--It was oneof the best schools in Paris."

  "It was, mother; but we are not talking about schools. Do let us get tothe bottom of this horrid muddle! If it isn't a case of `income,' whatcan it be? I'm ignorant about money, for you have always managedbusiness matters, but I can't see what else we can have been livingupon?"

  Mrs Gifford crinkled her delicate brows, and adopted an air ofplaintive self-defence.

  "I'm sure it's as great a shock to me as it is to you; but, under thecircumstances, I do think I managed very well. It was only ninethousand pounds at the beginning, and I've made it last over thirteenyears, _with_ your education! And since we've been here, for the lastthree years, I've given you a good time, and taken you to everythingthat was going on. Naturally it all costs. Naturally money can't lastfor ever..."

  The blood flooded the girl's face. Now at last she _did_ understand,and the knowledge filled her with awe.

  "Mother! Do you mean that we have been living all this time on_capital_?"

  Mrs Gifford shrugged her shoulders, and extended her hands in anattitude typically French.

  "What would you, _ma chere_? Interest is so ridiculously low. Theyoffered me three per cent. Four was considered high. How could we havelived on less than three hundred a year? Your school bills came tonearly as much, and I had to live, too, and keep you in the holidays. Idid what I thought was the best. We should both have been miserable incheap pensions, stinting ourselves of everything we liked. The moneyhas made us happy for thirteen years."

  Claire rose from her seat and walked over to the window. The road intowhich she looked was wide and handsome, lined with a double row oftrees. The sun shone on the high white houses with the green_jalousies_, which stood _vis-a-vis_ with the Pension. Along thecobble-stoned path a dog was dragging a milk-cart, the gleaming br
asscans clanking from side to side; through the open window came the faintindescribable scent which distinguishes a continental from a Britishcity. Claire stared with unseeing eyes, her heart beating with heavythuds. She conjured up the image of a man's face--a strong kindlyface--a face which might well make the sunshine of some woman's life,but which made no appeal to her own heart. She set her lips, and twobright spots of colour showed suddenly in her cheeks. So smooth anduneventful had been her life that this was the first time that she hadfound herself face to face with serious difficulty, and, after the firstshock of realisation, her spirit rose to meet it. She straightened hershoulders as if throwing off a weight, and her heart cried valiantly,"It's my own life, and I will _not_ be forced! There must be some otherway. It's for me to find it!"

  Suddenly she whirled round, and walked back to her mother.

  "Mother, if you knew how little money was left, why wouldn't you let meaccept Miss Farnborough's offer at Christmas!"

  For a moment Mrs Gifford's face expressed nothing but bewilderment.Then comprehension dawned.

  "You mean the school-mistress from London? What was it she suggested?That you should go to her as a teacher? It was only a suggestion, sofar as I remember. She made no definite offer."

  "Oh, yes, she did. She said that she had everlasting difficulty withher French mistresses, and that I was the very person for whom she'dbeen looking. Virtually French, yet really English in temperament. Shemade me a definite offer of a hundred and ten pounds a year."

  Mrs Gifford laughed, and shrugged her graceful shoulders. She appearedto find the proposal supremely ridiculous, yet when people were withoutmoney, the only sane course seemed to be to take what one could get.Claire felt that she had not yet mastered the situation. There must besomething behind which she had still to grasp.

  "Well, never mind the school for a moment, mother dear. Tell me what_you_ thought of doing. You must have had some plan in your head allthese years while the money was dwindling away. Tell me your scheme,then we can compare the two and see which is better."

  Mrs Gifford bent her head over the table, and scribbled aimlessly witha pen in which there was no ink. She made no answer in words, yet asshe waited the blood flamed suddenly over Claire's face, for it seemedto her that she divined what was in her mother's mind. "I expected thatyou would marry. I have done my best to educate you and give you ahappy youth. I expected that you would accept your first good offer,and look after _me_!"

  That was what a French mother would naturally say to her daughter; thatwas what Claire Gifford believed that her own mother was saying to herat that moment, and the accusation brought little of the revolt which anEnglish girl would have experienced. Claire had been educated at aParisian boarding school, and during the last three years had associatedalmost entirely with French-speaking Andrees and Maries and Celestes,who took for granted that their husbands should be chosen for them bytheir parents. Claire had assisted at betrothal feasts, and played_demoiselle d'honneur_ at subsequent weddings, and had witnessed anastonishing degree of happiness as an outcome of these business-likeunions. At this moment she felt no anger against her own mother forhaving tried to follow a similar course. Her prevailing sensation wasannoyance with herself for having been so difficult to lead.

  "It must be my English blood. Somehow, when it came to the point, Inever _could_. But Mr Judge is different from most men. He is so goodand generous and unmercenary. He'd be kind to mother, and let her livewith us, and make no fuss. He is as charming to her as he is to me.Oh, dear, I _am_ selfish! I _am_ a wretch! It isn't as if I were inlove with anyone else. I'm not. Perhaps I never shall be. I'll neverhave the chance if I live in lodgings and spend my life teachingirregular verbs. Why can't I be sensible and French, and marry him andlive happily ever after? _Pauvre petite mere_! Why can't I think of_her_?"

  Suddenly Claire swooped down upon her mother's drooping figure, wrappedher in loving arms, and swung her gently to and fro. She was a tall,strikingly graceful girl, with a face less regularly beautiful than hermother's, but infinitely more piquant and attractive. She was moreplump and rounded than the modern English girl, and her complexion lesspink and white, but she was very neat and dainty and smart, possesseddeep-set, heavily-lashed grey eyes, red lips which curled mischievouslyupward at the corner, and a pair of dimples on her soft left cheek.

  The dimples were in full play at this moment; the large one was just onthe level with the upward curl of the lips, the smaller one nestledclose to its side. In repose they were almost unnoticed, but at theslightest lighting of expression, at the first dawn of a smile, theydanced into sight and became the most noticeable feature of her face.Claire without her dimples would have been another and far lessfascinating personality.

  "Mother darling, forgive me! Kiss me, _cherie_--don't look sad! I_have_ had a good time, and we'll have a good time yet, if it is in mypower to get it for you. Cheer up! Things won't be as bad as you fear.We won't allow them to be bad. ... How much does the horrid old banksay that we owe? Three hundred francs. I can pay it out of my ownlittle savings. Does it mean literally that there is nothing more,nothing at all--not a single sou?"

  "Oh no. I have some shares. They have been worthless for years, butjust lately they have gone up. I was asking Mr Judge about themyesterday. 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 hundredEnglish pounds were a considerable improvement on a debit account. Withtwo or three hundred pounds much might yet be done. Thousands of peoplehad built up great fortunes on smaller foundations. In a vague,indefinite fashion she determined to devote these last pounds tosettling herself in some business, which would ensure a speedy andgenerous return. School teaching was plainly out of the question, sincetwo gentlewomen could not exist on a hundred and ten pounds a year. Shemust think of something quicker, more lucrative.

  All through dinner that evening Claire debated her future vocation asshe sat by her mother's side, halfway down the long dining-table whichto English eyes appeared so bare and unattractive, but which was yetsupplied with the most appetising of food. Claire's eyes wereaccustomed to the lack of pretty detail; she had quite an affection forthe Pension which stood for home in her migratory life, and a real lovefor Madame Dupre, the cheery, kindly, most capable proprietor. Such ofthe _pensionnaires_ as were not purely birds of passage she regarded asfriends rather than acquaintances; the only person in the room to whomshe felt any antagonism was Mr Judge himself, but unfortunately he wasthe 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 thelast weeks had exercised so disturbing an element in her life. Was itsix weeks or two months, since she and her mother had first made hisacquaintance at the tennis club at which they spent so many of theirafternoons? Claire had noticed that a new man had been present on thatoccasion, had bestowed on him one critical glance, decided with youthfularrogance: "Oh, quite old!" and promptly forgotten his existence, untilan hour later, when, as she was sitting in the pavilion enjoying theluxury of a real English tea, the strange man and her mother had enteredside by side. Claire summoned in imagination the picture of her motheras she had looked at that moment, slim and graceful in the simplest ofwhite dresses, an untrimmed linen hat shading her charming face. Shelooked about twenty-five, and Claire was convinced that she knew asmuch, and that it was a mischievous curiosity to see her companion'ssurprise which prompted her to lead the way across the floor, andformally introduce "My daughter!"

  Mr Judge exhibited all the expected signs of bewilderment, but he madehimself exceedingly amiable to the daughter, and it was not until a weeklater that it was discovered that he had concluded that the relationshipmust surely be "step," when fresh explanations were made, and all thebewilderment came over again.

  Since then,
oh, since then, Claire told herself, there had been nogetting away from the man! He was, it appeared, an Indian merchantspending a few months on the Continent, at the conclusion of a year'sleave. He had come to Brussels because of the presence of an old schoolfriend--the same friend who was responsible for the introduction at thetennis club--but week after week passed by, and he showed no dispositionto move on.

  Now Brussels is a very gay and interesting little city, but when Parislooms ahead, and Berlin, Vienna, to say nothing of the beauties ofSwitzerland 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 wassick to death of hotels and lonely evenings in smoking rooms, andapproached Madame Dupre with a view to joining the party at Villa BeauSejour. Madame was delighted to receive him, but Claire Gifford toldher mother resentfully that she considered Mr Judge's behaviour "verycool." How did he know that it would be pleasant for them to have himpoking about morning, noon, and night?

  "It isn't _our_ Pension, darling, and he is very nice to you," MrsGifford had said in return, and as it was impossible to contradicteither statement, Claire had tossed her head, and relapsed into silence.

  For the first weeks of her acquaintance with Mr Judge, Claire hadthoroughly enjoyed his attentions. It was agreeable to know a man whohad a habit of noting your wishes, and then setting to work to bringthem about forthwith, and who was also delightfully extravagant asregards flowers, and seemed to grow chocolates in his coat pockets. Itwas only when he spoke of moving to the Pension, and her girl friends atthe tennis club began to tease, roll meaning eyes, and ask when she wasto 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 unwelcomerevelations of the morning's post, Claire was to-day asking herself adifferent question. She was no longer occupied with other people; shewas thinking of herself... "Am I going to marry Mr Judge? Oh, goodgracious, is that _My Husband_ sitting over there, and have I got tolive with him every day, as long as we both shall live?"

  She shuddered at the thought, but in truth there was nothing to shudderat in Robert Judge's appearance. He was a man of forty, bronzed, andwiry, with agreeable if not regular features. Round his eyes the skinwas deeply furrowed, but the eyes themselves were bright and youthful,and the prevailing expression was one of sincerity and kindliness. Hewore a loose grey tweed suit, with a soft-coloured shirt which showed alength of brown neck. The fingers of his right band were deeply stainedwith tobacco. During _dejeuner_ he carried on a conversation with hisright-hand companion, in exceedingly bad French, but ever and anon heglanced 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 runningaway. 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 herFrench training, the English instinct survived and clamoured forliberty, for independence. "It's my own life. If I marry at all, Iwant to choose the man for no other reason than that I love him; not asa duty, and to please somebody else!" Then she glanced at her mothersitting by her side, slim, and graceful, with the little air of pathosand helplessness which even strangers found so appealing, and as she didso, a shiver passed through Claire's veins.

  "But I'll have to do it!" she said to herself helplessly. "I'll have todo it!"