The man with the good-natured, interesting face bowed to Claire with the
alacrity which the normal man shows at an introduction to a pretty girl;
Claire stared blankly, recovered herself, and returned his bow in formal
manner. Erskine looked from one to the other in undisguised surprise.
"I thought you had met... You told me you had met Carew in town!"
"Not _this_ Major Carew!" Claire could not suppress a tone of regret.
With all her heart she wished that the man before her had been Cecil's
fiance.
"It was the same name, but--"
"Not the same man? It's not an unusual name, I expect there are several
of us knocking about," the present Major Carew said smilingly. "Do you
happen to know his regiment?"
Claire knew it well, but as she pronounced the name, the hearer's face
crinkled in confusion.
"But that is my own regiment! There _is_ no other Carew! There's some
mistake. You have mixed up the names."
"Oh no. I've heard it a hundred times. It is impossible to be
mistaken. His Christian name is Frank."
"_My_ name is Frank!" the strange man said, and stared at Claire in
increasing perplexity. "There is certainly not another Frank Carew in
the M---. There is something wrong about this. I don't understand!"
"He is a member of the --- Club, and his people live in Surrey. He has
an old father who is an invalid, and the name of the house is `The
Moat'--"
Major Carew's face turned a deep, apoplectic red, his light eyes seemed
to protrude from his head, so violent was his anger and surprise.
"But--that's _me_! That's my club, my father, my home! Somebody has
been taking my name, and passing himself off under false colours for
some mysterious reason. I can't imagine what good it is going to do
him."
He broke off in alarm, and cast an appealing look at Erskine as Claire
suddenly collapsed on the nearest chair, her face as white as her gown.
"I say, this is a bad business I'm most awfully sorry. I'm afraid Miss
Gifford is distressed--"
Erskine's lips were set in a fury of anger. He glanced at Claire and
turned hurriedly away, as though he could not trust himself to look at
her blanched face. To see the glint of his eye, the set of the firm
jaw, was to realise that it would fare badly with the masquerader should
he come within reach. There was a moment of tense, unhappy silence,
then Erskine drew forward two more chairs, and motioned to the Major to
be seated.
"I think we shall have to thresh this out! It is naturally a shock, but
Miss Gifford's acquaintance with this person is very slight. She took a
violent dislike to him at first sight, so you need not fear that she
will feel any personal distress. That is so, isn't it? That's the real
position?"
Claire nodded a quick assent.
"Yes, yes. I met him twice, and I hated him from the first; but my
friend believes..." Her voice broke, and she struggled for composure,
her chin quivering with pitiful, child-like distress. "He is engaged to
be _married_ to my friend!"
A deep murmur of anger came simultaneously from both hearers. The real
Major Carew straightened himself with an air of determination.
"Engaged to her? Under my name? This is too strong! And in the name
of wonder, what for? I'm nobody. I've nothing. I'm the most
insignificant of fellows, and chronically hard up. What had he to gain
by taking my name?"
"You are a gentleman, and he is not. Everything is comparative. He
wanted to impress my friend, and he knew you so well that it was easy to
pretend, and make up a good tale. He _said_ he was hard up. He--he--
borrowed money!"
"From the girl?" Again came that deep murmur of indignation. "What an
unspeakable cur, and--excuse me, what a poor-spirited girl to have
anything to do with him after that! Could you do nothing to prevent her
making such a fool of herself?"
"Nothing. I tried. I tried hard, but--"
Erskine looked at her with his keen, level glance.
"And she borrowed from you to supply his needs? No, never mind, I won't
ask any more questions, but I know! I know!" His eyes hardened again
as he turned towards the other man. "Carew, this is pure swindling! We
shall have to worry this out!"
"I believe you, my boy!" said the Major tersely. He turned to Claire
and added more gently, "Tell us some more about this fellow, Miss
Gifford! Describe him! Would you recognise him if you met again?"
"Oh, yes. At once. He is tall and dark, good-looking, I suppose,
though I detest his type. Very dark eyes. Large features."
The Major ruminated, finding apparently no clue in the description.
"Tall. Dark. Large features! I know about a hundred men to whom that
description might apply. Could you think of anything more definite?"
Claire ruminated in her turn; recalled the image of Cecil's lover, and
tried to remember the details of his appearance.
"He has very thick hair, and brushes it straight across his forehead.
His eyebrows are very short. He has a high colour, quite red cheeks."
Major Carew made a short, choking sound; lay back in his chair, and
stared aghast. This time it was evident that the description awoke a
definite remembrance, but he appeared to thrust it from him, to find it
difficult to give credence to the idea.
"Impossible!" he murmured to himself. "Impossible! High colour, you
say; short eyebrows. When you say `short,' what exactly do you mean?"
"They begin by being very thick, then they stop abruptly. They don't
follow the line of the eye, like most eyebrows. They look--unfinished!"
Major Carew bounced upon his chair.
"Erskine, I have an idea.--It seems almost incredible, but I'm bound to
find if it is correct! There is a man who is in our camp now. I'll
make an excuse, and send him over to-night, if you can arrange that Miss
Gifford sees him when he comes. I'll give him a message for you."
"_Send_!" repeated Erskine sharply; then he glanced at Claire, and sent
a frowning message towards the other man. "That can easily be arranged.
We'll leave it till evening, then. We can't get any further now, and I
must get back to my duties. The mater is scowling at me. Go and soothe
her like a good fellow, but for your life--not a word of this to her!"
Major Carew rose obediently, perfectly aware that his company was not
wanted, and Erskine bent towards Claire with a few earnest words.
"Don't worry! If this man is an impostor, the sooner it is found out,
the better. He _is_ an impostor, there's no getting away from that, and
he is making a dupe of that poor girl for his own ends. If we had not
made this discovery, he would have stuck to her until he had bled her of
her last penny, and then would probably have disappeared into space.
She knows nothing of his real name or position, so it would have been
difficult to trace him, and probably nothing to be gained, if he _were_
found. One reads of these scoundrels from time to time, but I've never
had the misfortune to meet one in the flesh. I'd like to horsewhip the
fellow for upsetting you like this!"
"Oh, what does it matter about me?" Claire cried impatiently. "It's
Cecil I'm thinking about--my poor, poor friend! She's not young, and
she is tired out after twelve years of teaching, and it's the _second_
time! Years ago a man pretended to love her, it was only pretence, and
it nearly broke her heart. She has never been the same since then. It
made her bitter and distrustful."
"Poor creature! No wonder. But that was some time ago, and now she is
engaged to this other fellow. Is she in love with him, do you suppose?"
Claire shrugged vaguely.
"I--don't--know! She is in love with the idea of a home."
"And he? You have seen them together. He is a cur, there's no getting
away from that, but he might be attached to the girl all the same. Do
you think he is?"
"Oh, how can I tell?" Claire cried impatiently. "She thinks he is, but
she thought the same about the other man. It doesn't seem possible to
tell! Men amuse themselves and pretend, and act a part, and then laugh
at a girl if she is so foolish as to believe--"
Captain Fanshawe bent forward, his arm resting on his knees, his face
upraised to hers; a very grave face, fixed and determined.
"Do you believe that, Claire? Do you believe what you are saying?"
The grey eyes looked deep into hers, compelling an answer.
"I--I think many of them--"
"Some of them!" the Captain corrected. "Just as some girls encourage a
man to gratify their own vanity. They are the exceptions in both cases;
but you speak in generalities, condemning the whole sex. Is it what you
really think--that most men pretend?"
The grey eyes were on her face, keen, compelling eyes from which there
was no escape. Claire flushed and hesitated.
"No! No, I don't. Not most. But there are some!"
"We are not concerned with `some'!" he said quietly, and straightening
himself, he cast a glance around.
The guests were standing about in little groups, aimless, irresolute,
waiting to be broken up into twos and fours, and drafted off to the
empty lawns; across the deserted tea-tables his mother's eyes met his,
coldly reproachful. Erskine sighed, and rose to his feet.
"I must go. These people need looking after. Don't look so sad. It
hurts me to see you sad."
Just those few, hastily-spoken words and he was gone, and Claire
strolled off in an opposite direction, anxious to screen herself from
observation among the crowd. She ached with pity for Cecil, but through
all her distresses the old confidence lay warm at her heart. There was
one man in the world who towered high above the possibility of deceit;
and between that man and herself was a bond stronger than spoken word.
The future seemed full of difficulties, but Claire did not trouble
herself about the future. The present was all-absorbing, full of
trouble; full of joy!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was seven o'clock before the last of the guests had departed, and
Mrs Fanshawe saw to it that her son was fully engaged until it was time
to dress for dinner. Her keen eyes had noticed signs of agitation as
the two young people sat together at tea. And what had Erskine been
talking about with that tense expression on his face? And what had
happened to the girl that she looked at one moment so radiant, and at
the next so cast-down? Mrs Fanshawe's affections, like those of most
selfish people, were largely influenced by personal considerations. A
week before she had felt quite a warm affection for the agreeable
companion who had rescued her from the boredom of lonely days, now hour
by hour, she was conscious of a rising irritation against the girl who
threatened to interfere with her own plans. The verdict of others
confirmed her own suspicions as to Erskine's danger, for during the
afternoon half a dozen intimate friends referred to Claire with
significant intonation. "Such a graceful creature. No wonder Erskine
is _epris_!" ... "Miss Gifford is quite charming." ... "_So_
interested to meet Miss Gifford!" Eyes and voice alike testified to the
conviction that if an engagement were not already arranged, it was a
certainty in the near future. Mrs Fanshawe set her lips, and
determined by hook or crook to get Claire Gifford out of the house.
That evening at nine o'clock the parlour-maid announced that Major
Carew's soldier servant wished to see Captain Fanshawe on a message from
his master, and Erskine gave instructions that he should be sent round
to the verandah, and stepped out of the window, leaving Claire wondering
and discomfited. What had happened? Was the impostor not to be found?
In her present tension of mind any delay, even of the shortest, seemed
unbearable.
The murmur of voices sounded from without, then Erskine stepped back
into the room, and addressed himself pointedly to Claire, but without
using her name.
"Would you come out just for two minutes? It's some plan for to-
morrow."
Claire crossed the room, acutely conscious of Mrs Fanshawe's
displeasure, stepped into the cool light of the verandah and beheld
standing before her, large and trim in his soldier's uniform, Cecil's
lover, the man who had masqueraded under his master's name.
For one breathless moment the two stood face to face, staring, aghast,
too petrified by surprise to be able to move or speak. Claire caught
hold of the nearest chair, and clutched at its back; the florid colour
died out of the man's cheeks, his eyes glazed with horror and dismay.
Then with a rapid right-about-face, he leapt from the steps, and sped
down the drive. Another moment and he had disappeared, and the two who
were left, faced each other aghast.
"His servant! His _servant_! Oh, my poor Cecil!"
"The scoundrel! It was a clever ruse. No need to invent details: he
had them all ready to his hand. The question is, what next? The game
is up, and he knows it. What will be his next move?"
Claire shook her head. She was white and shaken. The reality was even
worse than she had expected, and the thought of Cecil's bitterness of
disillusion weighed on her like a nightmare. She tried to speak, but
her lips trembled and Erskine drew near with a quick word of
consolation--
"Claire!"
"What is this plan, Erskine? Am I not to be consulted? Remember that
you are engaged to lunch with the Montgomerys to-morrow."
Mrs Fanshawe stood in the doorway, erect, haughty, obviously annoyed.
Her keen eyes rested on Claire's face, demanding a reason for her
embarrassment. Erskine made a virtue of necessity, and offered a short
explanation.
"A disagreeable thing has happened, mother. Miss Gifford has discovered
through Major Carew that a friend is in serious trouble. It has been
rather a shock."
"Dear me. Yes! It would be. Perhaps you would like to go to your
room, my dear. I'm tired myself, and shall be glad to get to bed. I am
sure you must wish to be alone. Shall we go?"
Claire said good night to the two men and went wearily upstairs. At
this moment even her own inward happiness failed to console. When
contrasted with her own fate, Cecil's seemed so cruelly unfair!