The Independence of Claire | Page 7

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, cherie, 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 pretendu, 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