"NO!"
Sleep refused to come to Claire that night. She lay tossing on her bed
while the old clock in the corridor without struck hour after hour.
Two, three, four, and still she tossed, and turned, and again and again
asked herself the world-old question, "What shall I do? What shall I
do?" and shuddered at the thought of the disillusionment which was
coming to her poor friend.
What was her own duty in the matter? Obviously Cecil must be told the
truth; obviously she was the one to tell it. Would it be possible to
_write_? Inclination clamoured in favour of such a course. It would be
so much easier: it would obviate the necessity for a lacerating
interview. Would it not be easier for Cecil, also? Claire felt that if
positions had been reversed, she would crave above all things to be
alone, hidden from the eyes of even the most sympathising of friends;
but Cecil's nature was of a different type. Having heard the one
abhorrent fact, she would wish to probe further, to be told details, to
ask a score of trifling questions. However full a letter might be, she
would not be satisfied without an interview. "But I might write first,
and see her afterwards!" poor Claire said to herself. "It would not be
quite so bad, when she had got over the first shock. I could _not_ bear
to see her face..."
It was five o'clock before at last sleep came to drive away the haunting
questions, and when she woke it was to find her early tea had grown cold
on the table by her side, and to see on looking at her watch that it was
nearly ten o'clock. She dressed hurriedly and went downstairs to find
Mrs Fanshawe alone in the dining-room, reading the _Morning Post_. She
waved aside Claire's apologies for her late appearance with easy good
nature. No one was _expected_ to be punctual at breakfast. It was
sheer tyranny to decree that visitors should get up at a definite hour.
If Claire had slept badly, why didn't she order breakfast in her room,
and spend the morning in bed?
"You look a wreck!" she said frankly, and threw down the paper with an
impatient gesture. "Such a nuisance about this bad news. Erskine seems
disgusted with the whole affair. He has gone off with Major Carew to
see what can be done, and is to go straight to the Willoughbys. So
tiresome, for I particularly wanted him to be in good form this
afternoon! What's it all about? As it has happened in my house, I
think I am entitled to an explanation. Something to do with Major
Carew's servant? How can your friend be associated with a servant? The
man has bolted, it appears. The Major came over half an hour ago to say
that he never returned last night. Thought flight the best policy, I
suppose, but what I am waiting to be told, is--what has he _done_?"
Claire sat down on the nearest chair, feeling more of a wreck than ever.
"Deserted! A soldier! But if he is found? The punishment..."
"He has already been found out, it appears, so that it was a choice
between certain punishment if he stayed, or the chance of getting safely
away. I am waiting to hear what it's all about!"
"Oh, Mrs Fanshawe, it's so difficult. It's not my secret!" cried poor
Claire desperately. "He, this man, has been masquerading under his
master's name. My friend knew him as Major Carew. She, they, became
very intimate."
"Engaged, I suppose! It doesn't say much for her discrimination. Her
ideas of what constitute a gentleman must be somewhat vague!" Mrs
Fanshawe said disagreeably. She felt disagreeable, and she never made
any effort to conceal her feelings, kindly or the reverse. It was
annoying that one of her own guests should be mixed up in an unsavoury
scandal with a common soldier: annoying to have people going about with
long faces, when she had planned a festive week. Really this Claire
Gifford was becoming more and more of an incumbrance! Mrs Fanshawe
paused with her hand on the coffee-pot, to ask a pointed question--
"Have _you_ also known this man under his false name, may I ask?"
Claire flushed uncomfortably.
"I met him twice. Only twice. For a very short time."
Mrs Fanshawe did not speak, but she arched her eyebrows in a fashion
which was more scorching than words. "So you, also, are ignorant of
what constitutes a gentleman!" said those eyebrows. "You also have been
including my friend's servant among your acquaintances!"
Claire felt the hopelessness of trying to justify herself, and relapsed
into silence also, the while she made a pretence of eating one of the
most miserable meals of her life. According to his mother, Erskine was
"quite disgusted" with the whole affair! Claire's heart sank at the
thought, but she acknowledged that such an attitude would be no more
than was natural under the circumstances. A soldier himself, Captain
Fanshawe would be a stern judge of a soldier's fraud, while his _amour
propre_ could not fail to be touched. Claire had too much faith to
believe that his displeasure would be extended to herself, yet she was
miserably aware that it was through her instrumentality that he had been
brought in contact with the scandal.
In the midst of much confusion of mind only one thing seemed certain,
and that was that it was impossible to face a tennis party that
afternoon. Claire made her apologies to Mrs Fanshawe as she rose from
the table, and they were accepted with disconcerting readiness.
"Of course! Of course! I never imagined that you would. Under the
circumstances it would be most awkward. I expect by afternoon the story
will be the talk of the place. Your friend, I understand, is still
ignorant of the man's real station? What do you propose to do with
regard to breaking the news?"
"In. I'm going to write. I thought I would sit in my room and compose
a letter.--It will be difficult!"
"Difficult!" Mrs Fanshawe repeated the word with disagreeable
emphasis. "Impossible, I should say, and, excuse me! cruel into the
bargain. To open a letter from a friend, expecting to find the ordinary
chit-chat, and to receive a blow that shatters one's life! My dear,
it's unthinkable! You cannot seriously intend it."
"You think it would be better if I _told_, her?" Claire asked
anxiously. "I wondered myself, but naturally I dreaded it, and I
thought she might prefer to get over the first shock alone. I had
decided to write first, and see her later on. But you think..."
"I think decidedly that you ought to break the news in person. You can
lead up to it more naturally in words. Even the most carefully written
letters are apt to read coldly; perhaps the more care we spend on them,
the more coldly they read."
"Yes, that's true, that's quite true, but I thought it would be better
not to wait. She is staying at home just now. I don't think he will
visit her there, for he seemed to shrink from meeting her mother, but he
may write and try--" Claire drew herself up on the point of betraying
that borrowing of money which was the most shameful feature of the
fraud, but Mrs Fanshawe was too much absorbed in her own schemes to
notice the omission. She had seen a way of getting rid of an unwelcome
guest, and was all keenness to turn it to account.
"He is sure to try to see her again while he is at large. He will
probably urge her to marry him at once. You should certainly not defer
your visit if it is to be of any use. How dreadful _it_ would be if she
were to marry him under an assumed name! You mustn't let us interfere
with your arrangement, my dear. You only promised me ten days, so I
can't grumble if you run away, and for the short time that Erskine is at
home, there are so many friends to fit in... You understand, I am sure,
that I am thinking of your own convenience!"
"I understand perfectly, thank you!" Claire replied, her head in the
air, the indignant colour dying her cheeks with red. Mrs Fanshawe's
arguments in favour of haste might be wise enough, but her personal
desire was all too plainly betrayed. And she pointedly ignored the fact
that the proposed interview need not have interrupted Claire's visit,
since it and the journey involved could easily have been accomplished in
the course of a day. "I understand perfectly, thank you. I will go
upstairs and pack now. Perhaps there is a train I could catch before
lunch?"
"The twelve-thirty. That will give you the afternoon in town. I'll
order a fly from the inn. I'm _so_ sorry for you, dear! Most nerve-
racking to have to break bad news, but you'll feel happier when it's
done. Perhaps you could take the poor thing with you to that sweet
little farm!"
Not for the world would Claire have spent the next hour in Mrs
Fanshawe's company. She hurried to her room, and placing her watch on
the dressing-table, so timed her packing that it should not be completed
a moment before the lumbering country "fly" drove up to the door. Then,
fully dressed, she descended the staircase, and held out a gloved hand
to her hostess, apparently unconscious of an offered kiss.
It was some slight consolation to note the change of bearing which had
come over Mrs Fanshawe during the last hour, and to realise that the
success of her scheme had not brought much satisfaction. She was
nervous, she was more than nervous, she was afraid! The while Claire
had been packing upstairs, she had had time to realise Erskine's return,
and his reception of the news she would have to break. As she drove
away from the door, Claire realised that her hostess would have paid a
large sum down to have been able to undo that morning's work!
For her own part, Claire cared nothing either way: literally and
truthfully at that moment even the thought of leaving Erskine had no
power to wound. The quickly-following events of the last twenty-four
hours had had a numbing effect on her brain. She was miserable, sore,
and wounded; the whole fabric of life seemed tumbling to pieces. Love,
for the moment, was in abeyance. As the fly passed the last yard of
mown grass which marked the boundary of the Fanshawe property, she threw
out her arms with one of the expressive gestures, which remained with
her as a result of her foreign training. "_Fini_!" she cried aloud.
Mentally at that moment, she swept the Fanshawes, mother and son, from
the stage of her life.
Where should she go next? Back to solitude, and the saffron parlour?
London in August held no attraction, but the solitary prospect of being
able to see Sophie, and at the moment Claire shrank from Sophie's sharp
eyes. Should she telegraph to the farm, and ask how soon she could be
received; and at the same time telegraph to Mary Rhodes asking for an
immediate interview? A few minutes' reflection brought a decision in
favour of this plan, and she drew a pocket-book from her dressing-bag,
and busied herself in composing the messages. One to the farm, a second
to Laburnum Crescent announcing her immediate return, then came a pause,
to consider the difficult wording of the third. Would it be possible to
drop a word of warning, intelligible to Cecil herself, but meaningless
to anyone else who might by chance open the wire?
"Back in town. Have important news. Imperative to see you to-day, if
possible. Appoint meeting. Delay dangerous."
It was not perfect, but in Claire's dazed condition it was the best she
could concoct, and it left a tactful uncertainty as to whether the news
affected herself or Cecil, which would make it the easier to explain.
Claire counted the words and folded the three messages in her hand-bag,
ready to be sent off the moment she reached the station.
The fly lumbered on; up a toilsome hill, down into the valley, up
another hill on the farther side; then came a scattering of houses, a
church, a narrow street lined with shops, and finally the station
itself, the clock over the entrance showing a bare four minutes to
spare.
The porter labelled the luggage, and trundled it down the platform.
Claire hurried through her business in the telegraph office, and ran
after him just as the train slowed down on the departure platform. One
carriage showed two empty corner places on the nearest side, Claire
opened the door, seated herself facing the engine, and spread her
impedimenta on the cushions. But few passengers had been waiting, for
this was one of the slowest trains in the day, but now at this last
moment there came the sound of running footsteps, a man's footsteps,
echoing in strong heavy beats. With a traveller's instinctive curiosity
Claire leant forward to watch the movements of this late comer, and
putting her head out of the window came face to face with Erskine
Fanshawe himself.
At sight of her he stopped short, at sight of him she stood up, blocking
the window from sight of the other occupants of the carriage; by a
certain defiance of pose, appearing to defend it also against his own
entrance. But he did not attempt to enter. Though he had been running,
it was his pallor, not his heat, which struck Claire in that first
moment. He was white, with the pallor of intense anger; the flash of
his eyes was like cold steel. He rested his hands on the sill of the
window, and looked up into her face.
"This is my mother's doing!"
It was a statement, not a question, and Claire made no reply. She stood
stiff and silent, while down the length of the platform sounded the
quick banging of doors.
"I got through sooner than I expected and went home to change. I did
not waste time in talking... I could guess what had happened. She made
it impossible for you to stay on?"
Still silence. The guard's whistle sounded shrilly. Erskine came a
step nearer. His white tense face almost touched her own.
"Claire!" he whispered breathlessly, "will you marry me?"
"Stand back there! Stand back!" cried an authoritative voice. The
wheels of the carriage rolled slowly forward. Claire bent forward, and
gave her answer in one incisive word--
"No!"
The wheels rolled faster and faster: left the station, whirled out into
the green, smiling plain.