The Independence of Claire Part 3

Claire kissed her, and was careful not to look at the cheque until she was alone. She had counted on at least a hundred to put in the bank as a refuge against a rainy day. Surely at this parting of the ways mother would wish her to have this security; but when she looked at her cheque, it was to discover that it was made out for fifty pounds--only half that sum. Claire felt sore at that moment, and for the first time a chill of fear entered into her antic.i.p.ations. Fifty pounds seemed a dreadfully small sum to stand between herself and want. A hundred might be only twice its value, but its three figures sounded so much more substantial.

She struggled hard to allow no signs of resentment to be seen, and felt that virtue was rewarded, when late that evening Mr Judge presented her with yet another envelope, saying awkwardly--

"That's--er--that's the bridesmaid's present. Thought you'd like to choose for yourself. Something to do, you know, some fine half-holiday, to go out and look in the shops. I've no views--don't get jewellery unless you wish. Just--er--'blew it' your own way!"

Claire kissed him, and remarked that he was a sweet old dear; and this time the opening of the envelope brought a surprise of an agreeable nature, for this cheque also was for fifty pounds, so that the desired hundred was really in her possession. No jewellery for her! Into the bank the money should go--every penny of it, and her bridesmaid present should be represented by peace of mind, which, after the financial shock of the last month, seemed more precious than many rubies.

Mr and Mrs Judge were married at the Emba.s.sy, and afterwards at an English church, the bride looking her most charming self in a costume of diaphanous chiffon and lace and the most fascinating of French hats, and the bridegroom his worst in his stiff conventional garments. They were a very radiant couple, however, and the _dejeuner_ held after the ceremony at the "Hotel Britannique" was a cheerful occasion, despite the parting which lay ahead.

The gathering was quite a large one, for Mr Judge had insisted upon inviting all the friends who had been kind to his _fiancee_ and her daughter during their three years' sojourn in the city, while the _pensionnaires_ at "Villa Beau Sejour" came _en ma.s.se_, headed by Madame herself, in a new black silk costume, her white transformation elaborately waved and curled for the occasion.

There were speeches, and there were toasts. There were kindly words of farewell and cheerful antic.i.p.ations of future meetings, there were good wishes for the bride and bridegroom, and more good wishes for the bridesmaid, and many protestations that it was "her turn next."

Then the bride retired to change her dress. Claire went with her, and tried valiantly not to cry as she fastened b.u.t.tons and hooks, and realised how long it might be before she next waited on her mother.

Mrs Judge was tearful, too, and the two knew a bitter moment as they clung together for the real farewell before rejoining the guests.

"I've been careless; I've made a mess of things. I've not been half as thoughtful as I should have been," sobbed the bride, "but I _have_ loved you, Claire, and this will make no difference! I shall love you just the same."

Claire flushed and nodded, but could not trust herself to speak. The love of a mother in far-off India could never be the same as the love of the dear companion of every day. But she was too generous to add to her mother's distress by refusing to be comforted, and the bride nervously powdered her eyes, and re-arranged her veil before descending to the hall, anxious as ever to shelve a painful subject, and turn her face to the sun.

Five minutes later Mr and Mrs Judge drove away from the door, and the girl who was left behind turned slowly to re-enter the hotel. It was very big, and fine, and s.p.a.cious, but at that moment it was a type of desolation in Claire's eyes. With a sickening wave of loneliness she realised that she was motherless and alone!

CHAPTER FOUR.

A FELLOW TRAVELLER INTRODUCES HERSELF.

The next afternoon Claire started on her journey to London. She had spent the night with friends, and been seen off at the station by quite a crowd of well-wishers. Little souvenirs had been showered upon her all the morning, and everyone had a kindly word, and a hopeful prophecy of the future. There were invitations also, and promises to look her up in her London home, and a perfect shower of violets thrown into the carriage as the train steamed out of the station, and Claire laughed and waved her hand, and looked so complacent and beaming that no one looking on could have guessed the real nature of her journey. She was not pretending to be cheerful, she _was_ cheerful, for, the dreaded parting once over, her optimistic nature had a.s.serted itself, and painted the life ahead in its old rosy colours. Mother was happy and secured from want; she herself was about to enjoy a longed-for taste for independence; then why grumble? asked Claire sensibly of herself, and anything less grumbling than her appearance at that moment it would be hard to imagine.

She was beautifully dressed, in the simplest but most becoming of travelling costumes, she was agreeably conscious that the onlookers to her send-off had been unanimously admiring in their regard, and, as she stood arranging her bags on the rack overhead, she saw her own face in the strip of mirror and whole-heartedly agreed in their verdict.

"I'm glad I'm pretty! It's a comfort to be pretty. I should grow so tired of being with myself if I were plain!" she reflected complacently as she settled herself in her corner, and flicked a few grains of dust from the front of her skirt.

She had taken a through first-cla.s.s ticket from sheer force of habit, for Mrs Gifford had always travelled first, and the ways of economy take some time to acquire. In the opposite corner of the carriage sat an elderly woman, obviously English, obviously also of the _grande dame_ species, with aquiline features, white hair dressed pompadour fas.h.i.+on, and an expression compounded of indifference and quizzical good humour.

The good humour was in the ascendant as she watched the kindly Belgians crowd round her fellow-pa.s.senger, envelop her in their arms, murmur tearful farewells, and kiss her soundly on either cheek. The finely marked eyebrows lifted themselves as if in commiseration for the victim, and as the door closed on the last farewell she heaved an involuntary sigh of relief. It was evident that the scene appealed to her entirely from the one standpoint; she saw nothing touching about it, nothing pathetic; she was simply amused, and carelessly scornful of eccentricities in manner or appearance.

On the seat beside this imposing personage sat a young woman in black, bearing the hall mark of lady's maid written all over her in capital letters. She sat stiffly in her seat, one gloved hand on her knee, the other clasped tightly round the handle of a crocodile dressing-bag.

Claire felt a pa.s.sing interest in the pair; reflected that if it were her lot in life to be a maid, she would choose to live on the Continent, where an affectionate intimacy takes the place of this frigid separation, and then, being young and self-engrossed, promptly forgot all about them, and fell to building castles in the air, in which she herself lived in every circ.u.mstance of affluence and plenty, beloved and admired of all. There was naturally a prince in the story, a veritable Prince Charming, who was all that the most exacting mind could desire, but the image was vague. Claire's heart had not yet been touched. She was still in ignorance as to what manner of man she desired.

Engaged in these pleasant day-dreams Antwerp was reached before Claire realised that half the distance was covered. On the quay the wind blew chill; on the boat itself it blew chillier still. Claire became aware that she was in for a stormy crossing, but was little perturbed by the fact, since she knew herself to be an unusually good sailor. She tipped the stewardess to fill a hot bottle, put on a cosy dressing-jacket, and lay down in her berth, quite ready for sleep after the fatigue and excitement of the past week.

In five minutes the s.h.i.+p and all that was in it was lost in dreams, and, so far as Claire was concerned, it might have been but another five minutes before the stewardess aroused her to announce the arrival at Parkeston Pier. The first glance around proved, however, that the other pa.s.sengers had found the time all too long. The signs of a bad crossing were written large on the faces of her companions, and there was a trace of resentment in the manner in which they surveyed her active movements.

An old lady in a bunk immediately opposite her own seemed especially injured, and did not hesitate to put her feelings into words, "_You_ have had a good enough night! I believe you slept right through... Are you aware that the rest of us have been more ill than we've ever been in our lives?" she asked in accusing tones. And Claire laughed her happy, gurgling little laugh, and said--

"I'm _so_ sorry, but it's all over, isn't it? And people always say that they feel better afterwards!"

The old lady grunted. She certainly looked thoroughly ill and wretched at the moment, her face drawn and yellow beneath her scanty locks, and her whole appearance expressive of an extremity of fatigue. It seemed to her that it was years since she had left the quay at Antwerp, and here was this young thing as blooming as though she had spent the night in her own bed! She hitched a shawl more closely over her shoulders, and called aloud in a high imperious tone--

"Mason! Mason! You must really rouse yourself and attend to me. We shall have to land in a few minutes. Get up at once and bring me my things!"

The covering of another bunk stirred feebly, and two feet encased in black merino stockings descended slowly to the floor. A moment later a ghastly figure was tottering across the floor, lifting from a box a beautifully waved white wig, and dropping it carefully over the head of the aggrieved old lady of the straggly locks.

It was all that Claire could do to keep from exclaiming aloud, as it burst upon her astonished senses that this poor, huddled creature was none other than the _grande dame_ of the railway carriage, the haughtily indifferent, cynically amused personage who had seemed so supremely superior to the agitations of the common ruck! Strange what changes a few hours' conflict with the forces of Nature could bring about!

Ill as the mistress was, the maid was even worse, and it was pitiful to see the poor creature's efforts to obey the exigent demands of her employer. In the end faintness overcame her, and if Claire had not rushed to the rescue, she would have fallen on the floor.

"It's no use struggling against it! You must keep still until the boat stops. You'll feel better at once when we land, and you get into the air." Claire laid the poor soul in her bunk, and turned back to the old lady who was momentarily growing younger and more formidable, as she continued the stages of her toilette.

"Can I help you?" she asked smilingly, and the offer was accepted with gracious composure.

"Please do. I should be grateful. Thank you. That hook fastens over here, and the band crosses to this side. The brooch is in my bag--a gold band with some diamonds--and the hat-pins, and a clean handkerchief. Can you manage? ... The clasp slides back."

Claire opened the bag and gazed with admiration at a brown _moire_ antique lining, and fittings of tortoisesh.e.l.l, bearing raised monograms in gold. "I shall have one exactly to match, when I marry my duke!" was the mental reflection, as she selected the articles mentioned and put the final touches to the good lady's costume.

Later on there was Mason to be dressed; later on still, Claire found herself carrying the precious dressing-bag in one hand, and supporting one invalid with the other, while Mason tottered in the wake, unable for the moment to support any other burden than that of her own body.

Mrs Fanshawe--Claire had discovered the name on a printed card let into the lining of the bag--had no sympathy to spare for poor Mason. She plainly considered it the height of bad manners for a maid to dare to be sea-sick; but being unused to do anything for herself, gratefully allowed Claire to lead the way, reply to the queries of custom-house officials, secure a corner of a first-cla.s.s compartment of the waiting train, and bid an attendant bring a cup of tea before the ordinary breakfast began.

Mason refused any refreshment, but Mrs Fanshawe momentarily regained her vigour, and was all that was gracious in her acknowledgment of Claire's help. The quizzical eyes roved over the girl's face and figure, and evidently approved what they saw, and Claire, smiling back, was conscious of an answering attraction. Thoughtless and domineering as was her behaviour to her inferior, there was yet something in the old lady's personality which struck an answering chord in the girl's heart.

She was enough of a physiognomist to divine the presence of humour and generosity, combined with a persistent cheerfulness of outlook. The signs of physical age were unmistakable, but the spirit within was young, young as her own!

The mutual scrutiny ended in a mutual laugh, which was the last breaking of the ice.

"My dear," cried Mrs Fanshawe, "you must excuse my bad manners! You are so refres.h.i.+ng to look at after all those horrors on the boat that I can't help staring. And you've been so kind! Positively I don't know how I should have survived without you. Will you tell me your name? I should like to know to whom I am indebted for so much help."

"My name is Claire Gifford."

"Er--yes?" Plainly Mrs Fanshawe felt the information insufficient.

"Gifford! I knew some Giffords. Do you belong to the Worcesters.h.i.+re branch?"

Claire hitched her shoulders in the true French shrug.

"_Sais pas_! I have no English relations nearer than second cousins, and we have lived abroad so much that we are practically strangers. My father died when I was a child. I went to school in Paris, and for the last few years my mother and I have made our headquarters in Brussels.

She married again, only yesterday, and is going to live in Bombay."

Mrs Fanshawe arched surprised brows.

"And you are staying behind?"

"Yes. They asked me to go. Mr Judge is very kind. He is my--er-- stepfather!" Claire shrugged again at the strangeness of that word.

"He gave me the warmest of invitations, but I refused. I preferred to be left."

Mrs Fanshawe hitched herself into her corner, planted her feet more firmly on the provisionary footstool, and folded her hands on her knee.

She had the air of a person settling down to the enjoyment of a favourite amus.e.m.e.nt, and indeed her curiosity was a quality well-known to all her acquaintances.

"Why?" she asked boldly, and such was the force of her personality that Claire never dreamt for a moment of refusing to reply.