In after days Claire often looked back upon that journey to London, and
tried to recall her own feelings, but invariably the effort ended in
failure. She could remember nothing but a haze of general misery and
confusion, which deepened with every fresh mile, and reached its acutest
point at the moment of arriving "home."
The landlady was flustered at having to prepare for so hasty a return,
and did not scruple to show her displeasure. She took for granted that
Claire had had lunch, and the poor girl had not the courage to undeceive
her. A telegram was lying on the dining-room table which announced
Cecil's arrival at four o'clock. Claire ordered tea to be ready at that
hour, and stretched herself on her bed in the room upstairs which looked
so bare and cold, denuded of the beautifying personal touches. She felt
incredibly tired, incredibly lonely; she longed with a very passion of
longing for some one of her own, for the dear, beautiful mother, who if
she did not always understand, was always ready to love. Oh, it was
hard, unnatural work, this fighting the world alone! Did the girls who
grew weary of the restraints of home, ever realise how their working
sisters sickened with longing for some one who cared enough even to
_interfere_!
Three o'clock, half-past three, a quarter to four. Claire was faint for
want of food, and had enough sense to realise that this was a poor
preparation for the ordeal ahead; she went downstairs, and threw herself
upon Lizzie's mercy.
"Lizzie, I have had no lunch. I'm starving. Could you bring up the tea
_now_, and make some fresh for Miss Rhodes when she arrives?"
"Why couldn't you say so before?" Lizzie asked with the freedom of the
lodging-house slavey, but the question was spoken in sympathy rather
than anger. "The kettle's boiling, and I've cut the bread and butter.
You shall have it in two two's. I'll cut you a sanguidge," she cried as
a supreme proof of goodwill, and clattered down the kitchen stairs at
express speed.
She was as good as her word. In five minutes tea was ready, and Claire
ate and drank, keeping her eyes turned resolutely from the clock.
Before it had struck the hour, there came from the hall the sound of a
well-known double knock, and she knew that the hour of her ordeal had
arrived.
She did not rise from the table; the tea-things were clattering with the
trembling of the hand that was resting upon the tray, she literally had
not the strength to rise. She lay back in her chair and stared
helplessly at the opening door.
Cecil came in. It came as a shock to see her looking so natural, so
entirely the Cecil Claire was accustomed to see. She looked tired, and
a trifle cross, but alas! these had been prevailing expressions even in
the days when things were going comparatively well. Casual in her own
manner, she saw nothing unusual in Claire's lack of welcome, she nodded
an off-hand greeting, and drew up a chair to the table.
"Well! I've come. Give me a cup of tea as a start. I've had a rush
for it. You said to-day, if possible, and I had nothing special on
hand, so I thought I had better come. What's the news, and what's the
danger? Which of us does it affect,--me or you?"
"Oh, it's--horrid, horrid, horrid! It's a long story. Finish your tea
first, then I'll tell you. I'm _so_ miserable!"
"Poor old girl!" Cecil said kindly, and helped herself to bread and
butter. Claire had a miserable conviction that her reply had had a
deceptive effect, and that the shock when it came, would be all the more
severe. Nevertheless, she was thankful for the reprieve; thankful to
see Cecil eat sandwiches with honest enjoyment, until the last one had
disappeared from the plate.
"Well!" Cecil pushed aside her cup, and rested an arm on the table.
"Let's get to business. I promised mother I'd catch the six o'clock
train back. What's it all about? Some young squire wanting to marry
you, and you want my advice? Take him, my dear! You won't always be
young and beautiful!"
Claire shook her head.
"Nothing about me. I wouldn't have worried you in the holidays, if--if
it hadn't been for your own sake..."
The red flowed into Cecil's cheeks, her face hardened, the tone of her
voice was icy cold.
"_My_ sake? I don't understand. I am not aware that you have any
responsibility about my affairs!"
"Cecil, I have! I must have. We have lived together. I have loved
you--"
Mary Rhodes waved aside the protestations with impatient scorn.
"Don't be sentimental, please! You are not one of the girls. If it's
the money, and you are in a hurry to be repaid--"
"I'm not. I'm not! I don't care if you _never_ pay..." Tears of
distress rose in Claire's eyes, she caught her breath and cried in a
choking sob. "Cecil, it's about--him! I've found out something. I've
seen him... Only last night..."
"I thought you might meet as his camp was so near. Suppose you did!
What was so terribly alarming in that?"
"You haven't heard? He hasn't been to see you, or written, or wired,
to-day?"
"He has not. Why should he? Don't be hysterical, Claire. If you have
anything to say, say it, and let me hear. What have you `found out'
about Major Carew?"
"He's--_not_ Major Carew!" Claire cried desperately. "He has deceived
you, Cecil, and pretended to be ... to be something quite different from
what he really is. There _is_ a real Major Carew, and his name is
Frank, and he has a home in Surrey, and an invalid father--everything
that he told you was true, only--he is not the man! Oh, Cecil, how
shall I tell you? It's so dreadfully, dreadfully hard. He knew all
about the real Major Carew, and could get hold of photographs to show
you, because he--he is his servant, Cecil--his soldier servant... He
was with him in camp!"
Cecil rose from her chair, and went over to the empty fireplace,
standing with her back to her companion. She spoke no word, and Claire
struggled on painfully with her explanations.
"He--the real Major Carew--came over to a tennis party at Mrs
Fanshawe's yesterday. I thought, of course, that it was another man of
the same name, but he said--he said there was no other in that regiment,
and he asked me to tell him some more, and I did, and everything I said
amazed him more and more, for it was true about _himself_! Then he
asked me to describe--the man, and he made an excuse to send his servant
over in the evening so that I should see him. He came. Oh, Cecil! He
saw me, and he--ran away! He had not returned this morning. He has
_deserted_!"
Still silence. It seemed to Claire of most pitiful import that Cecil
made no disclaimer, that at the word of a stranger she accepted her
lover's guilt. What a light on the past was cast by that stoney
silence, unbroken by a solitary protest. Poor Mary Rhodes had known no
doubts as to the man's identity, she had given him affection and help,
but respect and trust could never have entered into the contract!
Claire had said her say: she leant her elbows on the table, and buried
her head in her hands. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily for
an endless five minutes. Then Cecil spoke:--
"I suppose," she said harshly, "you expect me to be grateful for this!"
The sound of her voice was like a blow. Claire looked up, startled,
protesting.
"Oh, Cecil, surely you would rather know?"
"Should I?" Cecil asked slowly. "Should I?" She turned back to the
tireless grate, and her thoughts sped... With her eyes opened she would
not, of course, consent to marry this man who had so meanly abused her
trust, but--suppose she had not known! Suppose in ignorance the
marriage had taken place? If he had been loving, if he had been kind,
would she in after days have regretted the step? At the bottom of her
weary woman's heart, Cecil answered that she would _not_. The fraud was
unpardonable, yet she could have pardoned it, if it had been done for
love of herself. No stately Surrey mansion would have been her home,
but a cottage of three or four rooms, but it would have been her _own_
cottage, her _own_ home. She would have felt pride in keeping it clean
and bright. There would have been some one to work for: some one to
care: some one to whom she _mattered_. And suddenly there came the
thought of another joy that might have been; she held to her breast a
child that was no paid charge, but her very own, bone of her bone, flesh
of her flesh...
"No! No!" she cried harshly, "I am not grateful. _Why_ did you tell
me? Why did you spoil it? What do I care who he was? He was my man;
he wanted me. He told lies _because_ he wanted me... I am getting old,
and I'm tired and cross, but he cared.--He _did_ care, and he looked up
to me, and wanted to appear my equal... Oh, I'm not excusing him. I
know all you would say. He deceived me--he borrowed money that he could
never pay back, but he would have confessed some day, he would have had
to confess, and I should have forgiven him. I'd have forgiven him
anything, _because_ he cared ... and after that--he would have cared
more--I should have had him. I should have had my home..."
Claire hid her face, and groaned in misery of spirit. From her own
point of view it seemed impossible that any woman should regret a man
who had proved so unworthy, but once again she reminded herself that her
own working life counted only one year, as against Cecil's twelve; once
again she felt she had no right to judge. Presently she became aware
that Cecil was moving about the room, opening the bureau, and taking
papers out of a drawer. At the end of ten minutes she came back to the
table, and began drawing on her gloves. Her face was set and tearless,
but the lines had deepened into a new distinctness. Claire had a
pitiful realisation that this was how Cecil would look when she was
_old_.
"Well," she said curtly, "that's finished! I may as well go for my
train. I'm sorry to appear ungracious, but you could hardly expect me
to be pleased. You meant well, of course, but it's a pity to interfere.
There's just one thing I'd like to make clear--you and I can hardly
live together after this. I never was a very agreeable companion, and I
shall be worse in the future. It would be better for your own sake to
make a fresh start, and for myself--I'm sorry to appear brutal, but I
could not stand another winter together. It would remind me too
much..."
She broke off abruptly, and Claire burst into helpless tears.
"Oh, Cecil, Cecil ... don't hate me--don't blame me too much! It's been
hard on me, too. Do you think I _liked_ breaking such news? Of course
I will take fresh rooms. I can understand that you'd rather have some
one else, but let us still be friends! Don't turn against me
altogether. I'm lonely, too... I've got my own trouble!"
"Poor little Claire!" Cecil melted at once, with the quick response
which always rewarded an appeal to her better feelings. "Poor little
Claire. You're a good child; you've done your best. It isn't _your_
fault." She lifted her bag from the table, and took a step towards the
door, then resolutely turned back, and held out her hand. "Good-bye.
Don't cry. What's the good of crying? Good luck to you, my dear, and--
take warning by me. I don't know what your trouble is, but as it isn't
money, it's probably love.--If it is, don't play the fool. If the
chance of happiness comes along, don't throw it away out of pride, or
obstinacy, or foolish prejudice. You won't always be young. When you
get past thirty, it's ... it's hard ... when there's nothing--"
She broke off again, and walked swiftly from the room.
The next moment the front door banged loudly. Cecil had gone.