CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
A RUPTURE.
In after days Claire often looked back upon that journey to London, andtried to recall her own feelings, but invariably the effort ended infailure. She could remember nothing but a haze of general misery andconfusion, which deepened with every fresh mile, and reached its acutestpoint 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 thatClaire had had lunch, and the poor girl had not the courage to undeceiveher. A telegram was lying on the dining-room table which announcedCecil's arrival at four o'clock. Claire ordered tea to be ready at thathour, and stretched herself on her bed in the room upstairs which lookedso bare and cold, denuded of the beautifying personal touches. She feltincredibly tired, incredibly lonely; she longed with a very passion oflonging for some one of her own, for the dear, beautiful mother, who ifshe did not always understand, was always ready to love. Oh, it washard, unnatural work, this fighting the world alone! Did the girls whogrew weary of the restraints of home, ever realise how their workingsisters 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 forwant of food, and had enough sense to realise that this was a poorpreparation for the ordeal ahead; she went downstairs, and threw herselfupon 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 thelodging-house slavey, but the question was spoken in sympathy ratherthan 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 asa supreme proof of goodwill, and clattered down the kitchen stairs atexpress speed.
She was as good as her word. In five minutes tea was ready, and Claireate and drank, keeping her eyes turned resolutely from the clock.Before it had struck the hour, there came from the hall the sound of awell-known double knock, and she knew that the hour of her ordeal hadarrived.
She did not rise from the table; the tea-things were clattering with thetrembling of the hand that was resting upon the tray, she literally hadnot the strength to rise. She lay back in her chair and staredhelplessly at the opening door.
Cecil came in. It came as a shock to see her looking so natural, soentirely the Cecil Claire was accustomed to see. She looked tired, anda trifle cross, but alas! these had been prevailing expressions even inthe days when things were going comparatively well. Casual in her ownmanner, she saw nothing unusual in Claire's lack of welcome, she noddedan 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 rushfor it. You said to-day, if possible, and I had nothing special onhand, so I thought I had better come. What's the news, and what's thedanger? Which of us does it affect,--me or you?"
"Oh, it's--horrid, horrid, horrid! It's a long story. Finish your teafirst, then I'll tell you. I'm _so_ miserable!"
"Poor old girl!" Cecil said kindly, and helped herself to bread andbutter. Claire had a miserable conviction that her reply had had adeceptive effect, and that the shock when it came, would be all the moresevere. Nevertheless, she was thankful for the reprieve; thankful tosee Cecil eat sandwiches with honest enjoyment, until the last one haddisappeared 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'clocktrain back. What's it all about? Some young squire wanting to marryyou, and you want my advice? Take him, my dear! You won't always beyoung and beautiful!"
Claire shook her head.
"Nothing about me. I wouldn't have worried you in the holidays, if--ifit hadn't been for your own sake..."
The red flowed into Cecil's cheeks, her face hardened, the tone of hervoice was icy cold.
"_My_ sake? I don't understand. I am not aware that you have anyresponsibility about my affairs!"
"Cecil, I have! I must have. We have lived together. I have lovedyou--"
Mary Rhodes waved aside the protestations with impatient scorn.
"Don't be sentimental, please! You are not one of the girls. If it'sthe 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 ofdistress rose in Claire's eyes, she caught her breath and cried in achoking sob. "Cecil, it's about--him! I've found out something. I'veseen 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 haveanything 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 deceivedyou, Cecil, and pretended to be ... to be something quite different fromwhat he really is. There _is_ a real Major Carew, and his name isFrank, and he has a home in Surrey, and an invalid father--everythingthat he told you was true, only--he is not the man! Oh, Cecil, howshall I tell you? It's so dreadfully, dreadfully hard. He knew allabout the real Major Carew, and could get hold of photographs to showyou, because he--he is his servant, Cecil--his soldier servant... Hewas 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 Clairestruggled on painfully with her explanations.
"He--the real Major Carew--came over to a tennis party at MrsFanshawe's yesterday. I thought, of course, that it was another man ofthe 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 saidamazed him more and more, for it was true about _himself_! Then heasked me to describe--the man, and he made an excuse to send his servantover in the evening so that I should see him. He came. Oh, Cecil! Hesaw 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 Cecilmade no disclaimer, that at the word of a stranger she accepted herlover's guilt. What a light on the past was cast by that stoneysilence, unbroken by a solitary protest. Poor Mary Rhodes had known nodoubts 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 buriedher head in her hands. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily foran 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 thetireless grate, and her thoughts sped... With her eyes opened she wouldnot, of course, consent to marry this man who had so meanly abused hertrust, but--suppose she had not known! Suppose in ignorance themarriage 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 herweary woman's heart, Cecil answered that she would _not_. The fraud wasunpardonable, yet she could have pardoned it, if it had been done forlove 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 cleanand bright. There would have been some one to work for: some one tocare: some one to whom she _mattered_. And suddenly there came thethought of another joy that might have been; she held to her breast achild that was no paid charge, but her very own, bone of her bone, fleshof her flesh...
"No! No!" she cried
harshly, "I am not grateful. _Why_ did you tellme? 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 upto me, and wanted to appear my equal... Oh, I'm not excusing him. Iknow all you would say. He deceived me--he borrowed money that he couldnever pay back, but he would have confessed some day, he would have hadto confess, and I should have forgiven him. I'd have forgiven himanything, _because_ he cared ... and after that--he would have caredmore--I should have had him. I should have had my home..."
Claire hid her face, and groaned in misery of spirit. From her ownpoint of view it seemed impossible that any woman should regret a manwho had proved so unworthy, but once again she reminded herself that herown working life counted only one year, as against Cecil's twelve; onceagain she felt she had no right to judge. Presently she became awarethat Cecil was moving about the room, opening the bureau, and takingpapers out of a drawer. At the end of ten minutes she came back to thetable, and began drawing on her gloves. Her face was set and tearless,but the lines had deepened into a new distinctness. Claire had apitiful 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 mytrain. I'm sorry to appear ungracious, but you could hardly expect meto 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 hardlylive together after this. I never was a very agreeable companion, and Ishall be worse in the future. It would be better for your own sake tomake a fresh start, and for myself--I'm sorry to appear brutal, but Icould not stand another winter together. It would remind me toomuch..."
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 beenhard on me, too. Do you think I _liked_ breaking such news? Of courseI will take fresh rooms. I can understand that you'd rather have someone else, but let us still be friends! Don't turn against mealtogether. I'm lonely, too... I've got my own trouble!"
"Poor little Claire!" Cecil melted at once, with the quick responsewhich always rewarded an appeal to her better feelings. "Poor littleClaire. 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 thedoor, 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'tmoney, it's probably love.--If it is, don't play the fool. If thechance of happiness comes along, don't throw it away out of pride, orobstinacy, or foolish prejudice. You won't always be young. When youget 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.
The Independence of Claire Page 24
