The Independence of Claire

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
been her home for the last three years, and bent her brows in
consideration of an all-absorbing problem. "Can I marry him?" she
asked herself once and again, with the baffling result that every single
time her brain answered instantly, "You must!" the while her heart rose
up in rebellion, and cried, "I won't!" Many girls have found themselves
in the same predicament before and since, but few have had stronger
reasons for sacrificing personal inclination on the altar of filial duty
than Claire knew at this minute.
To begin with, the relationship between herself and her mother was
more intimate than is usually the case, for Claire was an only child, and
Mrs Gifford a widow only eighteen years older than herself. Briefly
stated, the family history was as follows--Eleanor Guyther had been the
only child of stern, old-world parents, and at seventeen had run away
from the house which had been more like a prison than a home, to
marry a handsome young artist who had been painting in the
neighbourhood during the summer months; a handsome merry-faced
boy of twenty-one, whose portrait Claire treasured in an old-fashioned
gold locket, long since discarded by her mother, who followed the
fashion in jewellery as well as in dress. It was strange to look at the
face of a father who was no older than oneself, and Claire had spent
many hours gazing at the pictured face, and trying to gain from it some
idea of the personality of the man of whom her mother persistently
refused to speak.
Mrs Gifford shrank from all disagreeables, great and small, and

systematically turned her back on anything which was disturbing or
painful, so that it was only from chance remarks that her daughter had
gained any information about the past. She knew that her father had
been a successful artist, although not in the highest sense of the term.
He had a trick of turning out pretty domestic pictures which appealed to
the taste of the million, and which, being purchased by enterprising
dealers, were reproduced in cheap prints to deck the walls of suburban
parlours. While he lived he made a sufficient income, and before his
death a formal reconciliation had taken place between the runaway
daughter and her north-country parents, from whom she later inherited
the money which had supported herself and her daughter throughout
the years of her widowhood.
Claire had the vaguest idea as to the amount of her mother's means, for
until the last few years the question of money had never arisen, they
had simply decided what they wished to do, without considering the
cost, but of late there had been seasons of financial tightness, and the
morning on which this history begins had brought a most disagreeable
awakening.
Mrs Gifford was seated in the salon staring disconsolately at a note
which had just arrived by the afternoon post. It was a very disagreeable
note, for it stated in brief and callous terms that her account at the bank
was overdrawn to the extent of three hundred francs, and politely
requested that the deficit should be made good. Claire looked flushed
and angry; Mrs Gifford looked pathetic and pale.
It seemed, in the first place, quite ludicrous that such a relationship as
that of mother and daughter should exist between two women who
looked so nearly of an age, and Mrs Gifford's youthful appearance was
a standing joke in the Pension. Every new visitor was questioned by
Madame as to the relationship between the two English ladies, and
never had one of the number failed to reply "sisters," and to be
convulsed with astonishment when corrected; and in good truth Mrs
Gifford was a wonderful specimen of the prolonged youth which is a
phenomenon of the present day.
She was slight, she was graceful, her waving brown hair was as

naturally luxuriant as that of a girl, her complexion was smooth and fair,
her pretty features were unchanged, she dressed with good taste, and,
though secretly proud of her youthful looks, was never so foolish as to
adopt kittenish airs to match. Her manner was quiet, gracious,
appealing; a little air of pathos enveloped her like a mist; on strangers
she made the impression of a lovely creature who had known suffering.
Everybody was kind to Mrs Gifford, and she in return had never been
known to utter an unkind word. She had been born with the faculty of
loving everybody a little, and no one very much, which--if one comes
to think of it--is the most powerful of all factors towards securing an
easy life, since it secures