"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 the owner from the possibility of keen personal
suffering.
At the present moment Mrs Gifford did, however, look really perturbed,
for, after shutting her eyes to a disagreeable fact, and keeping them
shut with much resolution and--it must be added--ease, for many years
past, she was now driven to face the truth, and to break it to her
daughter into the bargain.
"But I don't understand!" Claire repeated blankly. "How _can_ the
money be gone? We have spent no more this year than for years past. I
should think we have spent less. I haven't been extravagant a bit. You
offered 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 most
good. But, you see, ours has not been a case of an income that goes on
year after year--it never was, even from the beginning. There was not
enough. And you _did_ have a good education, didn't you? I spared
nothing on it. It's folly to stint on a girl's education.--It was one
of the best schools in Paris."
"It was, mother; but we are not talking about schools. Do let us get to
the bottom of this horrid muddle! If it isn't a case of `income,' what
can it be? I'm ignorant about money, for you have always managed
business matters, but I can't see what else we can have been living
upon?"
Mrs Gifford crinkled her delicate brows, and adopted an air of
plaintive self-defence.
"I'm sure it's as great a shock to me as it is to you; but, under the
circumstances, I do think I managed very well. It was only nine
thousand pounds at the beginning, and I've made it last over thirteen
years, _with_ your education! And since we've been here, for the last
three years, I've given you a good time, and taken you to everything
that was going on. Naturally it all costs. Naturally money can't last
for 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 an
attitude typically French.
"What would you, _ma chere_? Interest is so ridiculously low. They
offered me three per cent. Four was considered high. How could we have
lived on less than three hundred a year? Your school bills came to
nearly as much, and I had to live, too, and keep you in the holidays. I
did what I thought was the best. We should both have been miserable in
cheap pensions, stinting ourselves of everything we liked. The money
has made us happy for thirteen years."
Claire rose from her seat and walked over to the window. The road into
which she looked was wide and handsome, lined with a double row of
trees. The sun shone on the high white houses with the green
_jalousies_, which stood _vis-a-vis_ with the Pension. Along the
cobble-stoned path a dog was dragging a milk-cart, the gleaming brass
cans clanking from side to side; through the open window came the faint
indescribable scent which distinguishes a continental from a British
city. Claire stared with unseeing eyes, her heart beating with heavy
thuds. She conjured up the image of a man's face--a strong kindly
face--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 two
bright spots of colour showed suddenly in her cheeks. So smooth and
uneventful had been her life that this was the first time that she had
found herself face to face with serious difficulty, and, after the first
shock of realisation, her spirit rose to meet it. She straightened her
shoulders 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 other
way. 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 me
accept 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, so
far as I remember. She made no definite offer."
"Oh, yes, she did. She said that she had everlasting difficulty with
her French mistresses, and that I was the very person for whom she'd
been looking. Virtually French, yet really English in temperament. She
made me a definite offer of a hundred and ten pounds a year."
Mrs Gifford laughed, and shrugged her graceful shoulders. She appeared
to find the proposal supremely ridiculous, yet when people were without
money, 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 be
something 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 all
these 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 with
a pen in which there was no ink. She made no answer in words, yet as
she waited the blood flamed suddenly over Claire's face, for it seemed
to her that she divined what was in her mother's mind. "I expected that
you would marry. I have done my best to educate you and give you a
happy 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; that
was what Claire Gifford believed that her own mother was saying to her
at that moment, and the accusation brought little of the revolt which an
English girl would have experienced. Claire had been educated at a
Parisian boarding school, and during the last three years had associated
almost entirely with French-speaking Andrees and Maries and Celestes,
who took for granted that their husbands should be chosen for them by
their parents. Claire had assisted at betrothal feasts, and played
_demoiselle d'honneur_ at subsequent weddings, and had witnessed an
astonishing degree of happiness as an outcome of these business-like
unions. At this moment she felt no anger against her own mother for
having tried to follow a similar course. Her prevailing sensation was
annoyance with herself for having been so difficult to lead.
"It must be my English blood. Somehow, when it came to the point, I
never _could_. But Mr Judge is different from most men. He is so good
and generous and unmercenary. He'd be kind to mother, and let her live
with 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 in
love with anyone else. I'm not. Perhaps I never shall be. I'll never
have the chance if I live in lodgings and spend my life teaching
irregular verbs. Why can't I be sensible and French, and marry him and
live happily ever after? _Pauvre petite mere_! Why can't I think of
_her_?"
Suddenly Claire swooped down upon her mother's drooping figure, wrapped
her in loving arms, and swung her gently to and fro. She was a tall,
strikingly graceful girl, with a face less regularly beautiful than her
mother's, but infinitely more piquant and attractive. She was more
plump and rounded than the modern English girl, and her complexion less
pink and white, but she was very neat and dainty and smart, possessed
deep-set, heavily-lashed grey eyes, red lips which curled mischievously
upward 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 on
the level with the upward curl of the lips, the smaller one nestled
close to its side. In repose they were almost unnoticed, but at the
slightest lighting of expression, at the first dawn of a smile, they
danced into sight and became the most noticeable feature of her face.
Claire without her dimples would have been another and far less
fascinating 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 my
power 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 bank
say that we owe? Three hundred francs. I can pay it out of my own
little 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, but
just lately they have gone up. I was asking Mr Judge about them
yesterday. 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 hundred
English pounds were a considerable improvement on a debit account. With
two or three hundred pounds much might yet be done. Thousands of people
had built up great fortunes on smaller foundations. In a vague,
indefinite fashion she determined to devote these last pounds to
settling herself in some business, which would ensure a speedy and
generous return. School teaching was plainly out of the question, since
two gentlewomen could not exist on a hundred and ten pounds a year. She
must think of something quicker, more lucrative.
All through dinner that evening Claire debated her future vocation as
she sat by her mother's side, halfway down the long dining-table which
to English eyes appeared so bare and unattractive, but which was yet
supplied with the most appetising of food. Claire's eyes were
accustomed to the lack of pretty detail; she had quite an affection for
the Pension which stood for home in her migratory life, and a real love
for Madame Dupre, the cheery, kindly, most capable proprietor. Such of
the _pensionnaires_ as were not purely birds of passage she regarded as
friends rather than acquaintances; the only person in the room to whom
she felt any antagonism was Mr Judge himself, but unfortunately he was
the 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 the
last weeks had exercised so disturbing an element in her life. Was it
six weeks or two months, since she and her mother had first made his
acquaintance at the tennis club at which they spent so many of their
afternoons? Claire had noticed that a new man had been present on that
occasion, had bestowed on him one critical glance, decided with youthful
arrogance: "Oh, quite old!" and promptly forgotten his existence, until
an hour later, when, as she was sitting in the pavilion enjoying the
luxury of a real English tea, the strange man and her mother had entered
side by side. Claire summoned in imagination the picture of her mother
as she had looked at that moment, slim and graceful in the simplest of
white dresses, an untrimmed linen hat shading her charming face. She
looked about twenty-five, and Claire was convinced that she knew as
much, and that it was a mischievous curiosity to see her companion's
surprise which prompted her to lead the way across the floor, and
formally introduce "My daughter!"
Mr Judge exhibited all the expected signs of bewilderment, but he made
himself exceedingly amiable to the daughter, and it was not until a week
later that it was discovered that he had concluded that the relationship
must surely be "step," when fresh explanations were made, and all the
bewilderment came over again.
Since then, oh, since then, Claire told herself, there had been no
getting away from the man! He was, it appeared, an Indian merchant
spending a few months on the Continent, at the conclusion of a year's
leave. He had come to Brussels because of the presence of an old school
friend--the same friend who was responsible for the introduction at the
tennis club--but week after week passed by, and he showed no disposition
to move on.
Now Brussels is a very gay and interesting little city, but when Paris
looms ahead, and Berlin, Vienna, to say nothing of the beauties of
Switzerland 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 was
sick to death of hotels and lonely evenings in smoking rooms, and
approached Madame Dupre with a view to joining the party at Villa Beau
Sejour. Madame was delighted to receive him, but Claire Gifford told
her mother resentfully that she considered Mr Judge's behaviour "very
cool." How did he know that it would be pleasant for them to have him
poking about morning, noon, and night?
"It isn't _our_ Pension, darling, and he is very nice to you," Mrs
Gifford had said in return, and as it was impossible to contradict
either statement, Claire had tossed her head, and relapsed into silence.
For the first weeks of her acquaintance with Mr Judge, Claire had
thoroughly enjoyed his attentions. It was agreeable to know a man who
had a habit of noting your wishes, and then setting to work to bring
them about forthwith, and who was also delightfully extravagant as
regards flowers, and seemed to grow chocolates in his coat pockets. It
was only when he spoke of moving to the Pension, and her girl friends at
the tennis club began to tease, roll meaning eyes, and ask when she was
to 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 unwelcome
revelations of the morning's post, Claire was to-day asking herself a
different question. She was no longer occupied with other people; she
was thinking of herself... "Am I going to marry Mr Judge? Oh, good
gracious, is that _My Husband_ sitting over there, and have I got to
live with him every day, as long as we both shall live?"
She shuddered at the thought, but in truth there was nothing to shudder
at in Robert Judge's appearance. He was a man of forty, bronzed, and
wiry, with agreeable if not regular features. Round his eyes the skin
was deeply furrowed, but the eyes themselves were bright and youthful,
and the prevailing expression was one of sincerity and kindliness. He
wore a loose grey tweed suit, with a soft-coloured shirt which showed a
length of brown neck. The fingers of his right band were deeply stained
with tobacco. During _dejeuner_ he carried on a conversation with his
right-hand companion, in exceedingly bad French, but ever and anon he
glanced 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 running
away. 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 her
French training, the English instinct survived and clamoured for
liberty, for independence. "It's my own life. If I marry at all, I
want to choose the man for no other reason than that I love him; not as
a duty, and to please somebody else!" Then she glanced at her mother
sitting by her side, slim, and graceful, with the little air of pathos
and helplessness which even strangers found so appealing, and as she did
so, a shiver passed through Claire's veins.
"But I'll have to do it!" she said to herself helplessly. "I'll have to
do it!"