Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Two.Found out.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!”“NotthisMajor Carew!” Claire could not suppress a tone of regret. With all her heart she wished that the man before her had been Cecil’s fiancé.“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! Thereisno 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.”“Myname 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’sme! 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 bemarriedto 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. Hesaidhe 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. Heisan 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 hewerefound. 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 thesecondtime! 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 isépris!” ... “Miss Gifford is quite charming.” ... “Sointerested 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! Hisservant! 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!

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!”

“NotthisMajor Carew!” Claire could not suppress a tone of regret. With all her heart she wished that the man before her had been Cecil’s fiancé.

“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! Thereisno 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.”

“Myname 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’sme! 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 bemarriedto 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. Hesaidhe 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. Heisan 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 hewerefound. 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 thesecondtime! 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 isépris!” ... “Miss Gifford is quite charming.” ... “Sointerested 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! Hisservant! 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!

Chapter Twenty Three.“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 towrite? 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 couldnotbear 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 theMorning Post. She waved aside Claire’s apologies for her late appearance with easy good nature. No one wasexpectedto 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 hedone?”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—“Haveyoualso 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 hisamour proprecould 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 Itold, 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 dreadfulitwould 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’msosorry 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.

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 towrite? 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 couldnotbear 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 theMorning Post. She waved aside Claire’s apologies for her late appearance with easy good nature. No one wasexpectedto 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 hedone?”

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—

“Haveyoualso 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 hisamour proprecould 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 Itold, 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 dreadfulitwould 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’msosorry 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.

Chapter Twenty Four.A Rupture.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 tointerfere!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 teanow, 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’msomiserable!”“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.“Mysake? 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 youneverpay...” 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—notMajor Carew!” Claire cried desperately. “He has deceived you, Cecil, and pretended to be... to be something quite different from what he really is. Thereisa 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 abouthimself! 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 hasdeserted!”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 wouldnot. 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 herowncottage, herownhome. 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 shemattered. 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.Whydid you tell me? Why did you spoil it? What do I care who he was? He was my man; he wanted me. He told liesbecausehe wanted me... I am getting old, and I’m tired and cross, but he cared.—Hedidcare, 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,becausehe 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 wasold.“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 Ilikedbreaking 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’tyourfault.” 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.

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 tointerfere!

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 teanow, 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’msomiserable!”

“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.

“Mysake? 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 youneverpay...” 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—notMajor Carew!” Claire cried desperately. “He has deceived you, Cecil, and pretended to be... to be something quite different from what he really is. Thereisa 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 abouthimself! 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 hasdeserted!”

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 wouldnot. 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 herowncottage, herownhome. 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 shemattered. 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.Whydid you tell me? Why did you spoil it? What do I care who he was? He was my man; he wanted me. He told liesbecausehe wanted me... I am getting old, and I’m tired and cross, but he cared.—Hedidcare, 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,becausehe 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 wasold.

“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 Ilikedbreaking 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’tyourfault.” 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.

Chapter Twenty Five.A sudden resolve.The next morning brought a letter from the farm bidding Claire welcome as soon as she chose to arrive, but there was no second letter on the table. Claire had not realised how confidently she had expected its presence, until her heart sank with a sick, heavy faintness as she lifted the one envelope, and looked in vain for a second.Erskine had not written. Did that mean that he had taken her hasty answer as final, and would make no further appeal? She had read of men who had boasted haughtily that no girl should have an opportunity of refusing themtwice; that the woman who did not know her own mind was no wife for them, but like every other lover she felt her own case to be unique. Driven to answer in a moment of intolerable irritation, what else could she have said?But he had not written! What did that mean? At the moment of discovering her departure, Erskine had been consumed with anger, but afterwards, had his mother’s counsels prevailed? Had he repented himself of his hasty impulse? Would the days pass on, and the months, and the years, and leave her like Cecil, solitary, apart?Claire made a pretence at eating her breakfast, and then, too restless to stay indoors, put on her hat, and went out to roam the streets until it should be time to visit Sophie in her hospital.Two hours later she returned and packed up not only her entire wardrobe, but the whole of her personal possessions. In the course of her walk there had come to her one of those curious contradictory impulses which are so characteristic of a woman’s nature. Having poured out her heart in grief because Erskine had neither written nor followed her to town, she was now restlessly impatient to make communication impossible, and to bury herself where she could not be found. Before leaving the house she made Lizzie happy by a present of money, accompanied by quite a goodly bundle of clothing, after which she interviewed the landlady, gave notice that she no longer needed the rooms, and wrote out a cheque in payment of all claims. Then a taxi was summoned, the various boxes piled on top, and another chapter of life had come to an end.Claire drove to the station, whence she proposed to take a late afternoon train to the farm, deposited her boxes in the left luggage office, and strolled listlessly towards the great bookstall under the clock. Another hour remained to be whiled away before she could start for the hospital; she would buy a book, sit in the waiting-room, and try to bury herself in its pages. She strolled slowly down the length of the stall, her eyes passing listlessly from one pile of books to another, finding little interest in them, and even less in the men and women who stood by her side. As Mrs Fanshawe would have said, “No one was in town”; even school-mistresses had flown from the region of bricks and mortar. If she had thought about it at all, Claire would have said that there was no one shecouldmeet, but suddenly a hand grasped her arm, and brought her to a halt. She started violently, and for an instant her heart leapt with a wild glad hope. It was not Erskine Fanshawe who confronted her, however, but a girl clad in a tweed costume with a cloth cap to match, on the side of which a sprig of heather was fastened by a gold brooch fashioned in the shape of a thistle. In bewildered surprise Claire recognised the brown eyes and round freckled face of Janet Willoughby, whom she had believed to be hundreds of miles away, in the highlands of Scotland.“Just come back,” Janet explained. “The weather was impossible. Nothing but sheets of rain. I got tired, and came back to pay some visits in the south.” She hesitated, then asked a sudden question. “Are you busy? Going anywhere at once? Could you spare half an hour? We might have lunch together in the refreshment room!”“Yes. No. I’d like to. I’ve had no lunch.” Claire faltered nervously, whereupon Janet turned to her maid, who was standing near, dressing-bag in hand, and gave a few quick instructions.“Get a taxi, Ross, and take all the things home. The car can wait for me. I’ll follow later.”The maid disappeared, and the two girls made their way across the open space. Both looked nervous and ill at ease, both dreaded the comingtête-à-tête, yet felt that it was a thing to be faced. Janet led the way to a table in the farthest corner of the room, and they talked trivialities until the ordered dishes were set on the table, and the waiter had taken his departure. Claire had ordered coffee, and drank eagerly, hoping that the physical refreshment would help to steady her nerves. Janet played with her knife and fork, and said, without looking up—“You have left the Fanshawes, then! I heard that you were staying on.”“Yes. Yesterday I—came back.”The very lameness of the answer made it significant. Janet’s freckled face turned noticeably pale.“Erskine went straight home after he left Scotland?”“Yes.”“And before he arrived, you had promised to stay on?”“Mrs Fanshawe asked me, before he came, if I could stay for another week, and I was very glad to accept. I had no other engagement.”“And then?”“Oh, then things were different. She didn’t need company, and—and—things happened. My friend, Miss Rhodes—”Janet waved aside “my friend, Miss Rhodes,” with an impatient hand.“And Erskine? What didhesay to your leaving?”The colour flamed in Claire’s cheek; she stammered in hopeless confusion, and, in the midst of her stammering, Janet laid both hands on the table, and, leaning forward so that the two faces were only a few inches apart, spoke a few startling words—“Has he—proposedto you? I must know! You must tell me!”It was a command, rather than an appeal, and Claire automatically replied—“He—he did! Yes, but—”“And you?”“I—couldn’t. I said no!”“You said no! Erskine asked you to be his wife, and yourefused?” Janet stared in incredulous bewilderment. A spark of indignation shone in her brown eyes. “But why? You care for him. Any girl might be proud to marry Erskine Fanshawe.Why?”“I can’t tell you. It’s so difficult. His mother—she didn’t want me. She would have hated it. She almost turned me out.”“Hismother! Mrs Fanshawe!” Janet’s voice was full of an ineffable surprise. “You refused Erskine because ofherprejudice? But she is always changing; she is the most undependable woman on the face of the earth! She is charming, and I’m fond of her, but I should not take her advice about a pair of gloves. Nothing that she could say would possibly have the slightest influence on my life. She’s irresponsible; she sees entirely from her own standpoint. And Erskine—Erskine is a rock!” She paused, pressing her lips together to still their trembling, and Claire answered with a note of apology in her voice.“Janet, Iknow! Don’t think I don’t appreciate him. Wait till you hear how it happened... He followed me to the station; it was the very last moment, just as the train was starting. There was time for only one word, and—I was sore and angry!”Janet looked at her, a long, searching look.“It’s curious, but I always knew this would come. When I saw you sitting together at supper that first night, I knew then. All the time I knew it in my heart, but on the surface it seemed ridiculous, for you never met!”“Never that you did not know, except one time in the park. There was nothing to tell you, Janet; nothing to hide.”“No. So he said. We talked of you in Scotland, you know, and it was just as I thought—a case of recognising each other at first sight. He said the moment he saw you you seemed different from everyone else, and he hoped and believed that you felt the same. That is how people ought to love; the right way, when both are attached, both feel the same... And it is so rare. Yet yourefused!”“Would you marry a man if his family disapproved?”“Oh, yes! I should not be marrying the family. I’d be sorry, of course, but I’d make up my mind that in time I’d make them fall in love with me, too. What are you going to do now?”“Going away. Into the country. I want to be quiet, and think.”Janet did not ask the address. She sat silent, staring into space, then asked a sudden irrelevant question:“Did he send you the cuckoo clock?”“I—think so! It had no name, but it came from Switzerland while he was there. He has never referred to it since.”“Ah!” Janet began pulling on her gloves. “I knew that, too. Ifeltthat he had sent it. Well! I must go. It will all come right, of course, and you will be very happy. I’ve known Erskine so long, and his wife is sure to be happy.” Janet forced an artificial little laugh. “You will be engaged before me, after all, but I dare say I shall soon follow suit. It’s nice to be loved. As one grows older, one appreciates it more. And Captain Humphreys is a good man.”“He is splendid! I loved his face. And he is so devoted to you. It was quite beautiful to watch him,” cried Claire, thankful from her heart to be able to enthuse honestly.A load was lifted from her heart by Janet’s prophecy of her own future. For the moment it had no doubt been made more out of bravado than any real conviction, and inevitably there must be a period of suffering, but Janet was of a naturally buoyant nature, and her wounded spirit would gradually find consolation in the love which had waited so patiently for its reward. It needed no great gift of prophecy to see her in the future, a happy, contented wife.

The next morning brought a letter from the farm bidding Claire welcome as soon as she chose to arrive, but there was no second letter on the table. Claire had not realised how confidently she had expected its presence, until her heart sank with a sick, heavy faintness as she lifted the one envelope, and looked in vain for a second.

Erskine had not written. Did that mean that he had taken her hasty answer as final, and would make no further appeal? She had read of men who had boasted haughtily that no girl should have an opportunity of refusing themtwice; that the woman who did not know her own mind was no wife for them, but like every other lover she felt her own case to be unique. Driven to answer in a moment of intolerable irritation, what else could she have said?

But he had not written! What did that mean? At the moment of discovering her departure, Erskine had been consumed with anger, but afterwards, had his mother’s counsels prevailed? Had he repented himself of his hasty impulse? Would the days pass on, and the months, and the years, and leave her like Cecil, solitary, apart?

Claire made a pretence at eating her breakfast, and then, too restless to stay indoors, put on her hat, and went out to roam the streets until it should be time to visit Sophie in her hospital.

Two hours later she returned and packed up not only her entire wardrobe, but the whole of her personal possessions. In the course of her walk there had come to her one of those curious contradictory impulses which are so characteristic of a woman’s nature. Having poured out her heart in grief because Erskine had neither written nor followed her to town, she was now restlessly impatient to make communication impossible, and to bury herself where she could not be found. Before leaving the house she made Lizzie happy by a present of money, accompanied by quite a goodly bundle of clothing, after which she interviewed the landlady, gave notice that she no longer needed the rooms, and wrote out a cheque in payment of all claims. Then a taxi was summoned, the various boxes piled on top, and another chapter of life had come to an end.

Claire drove to the station, whence she proposed to take a late afternoon train to the farm, deposited her boxes in the left luggage office, and strolled listlessly towards the great bookstall under the clock. Another hour remained to be whiled away before she could start for the hospital; she would buy a book, sit in the waiting-room, and try to bury herself in its pages. She strolled slowly down the length of the stall, her eyes passing listlessly from one pile of books to another, finding little interest in them, and even less in the men and women who stood by her side. As Mrs Fanshawe would have said, “No one was in town”; even school-mistresses had flown from the region of bricks and mortar. If she had thought about it at all, Claire would have said that there was no one shecouldmeet, but suddenly a hand grasped her arm, and brought her to a halt. She started violently, and for an instant her heart leapt with a wild glad hope. It was not Erskine Fanshawe who confronted her, however, but a girl clad in a tweed costume with a cloth cap to match, on the side of which a sprig of heather was fastened by a gold brooch fashioned in the shape of a thistle. In bewildered surprise Claire recognised the brown eyes and round freckled face of Janet Willoughby, whom she had believed to be hundreds of miles away, in the highlands of Scotland.

“Just come back,” Janet explained. “The weather was impossible. Nothing but sheets of rain. I got tired, and came back to pay some visits in the south.” She hesitated, then asked a sudden question. “Are you busy? Going anywhere at once? Could you spare half an hour? We might have lunch together in the refreshment room!”

“Yes. No. I’d like to. I’ve had no lunch.” Claire faltered nervously, whereupon Janet turned to her maid, who was standing near, dressing-bag in hand, and gave a few quick instructions.

“Get a taxi, Ross, and take all the things home. The car can wait for me. I’ll follow later.”

The maid disappeared, and the two girls made their way across the open space. Both looked nervous and ill at ease, both dreaded the comingtête-à-tête, yet felt that it was a thing to be faced. Janet led the way to a table in the farthest corner of the room, and they talked trivialities until the ordered dishes were set on the table, and the waiter had taken his departure. Claire had ordered coffee, and drank eagerly, hoping that the physical refreshment would help to steady her nerves. Janet played with her knife and fork, and said, without looking up—

“You have left the Fanshawes, then! I heard that you were staying on.”

“Yes. Yesterday I—came back.”

The very lameness of the answer made it significant. Janet’s freckled face turned noticeably pale.

“Erskine went straight home after he left Scotland?”

“Yes.”

“And before he arrived, you had promised to stay on?”

“Mrs Fanshawe asked me, before he came, if I could stay for another week, and I was very glad to accept. I had no other engagement.”

“And then?”

“Oh, then things were different. She didn’t need company, and—and—things happened. My friend, Miss Rhodes—”

Janet waved aside “my friend, Miss Rhodes,” with an impatient hand.

“And Erskine? What didhesay to your leaving?”

The colour flamed in Claire’s cheek; she stammered in hopeless confusion, and, in the midst of her stammering, Janet laid both hands on the table, and, leaning forward so that the two faces were only a few inches apart, spoke a few startling words—

“Has he—proposedto you? I must know! You must tell me!”

It was a command, rather than an appeal, and Claire automatically replied—

“He—he did! Yes, but—”

“And you?”

“I—couldn’t. I said no!”

“You said no! Erskine asked you to be his wife, and yourefused?” Janet stared in incredulous bewilderment. A spark of indignation shone in her brown eyes. “But why? You care for him. Any girl might be proud to marry Erskine Fanshawe.Why?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s so difficult. His mother—she didn’t want me. She would have hated it. She almost turned me out.”

“Hismother! Mrs Fanshawe!” Janet’s voice was full of an ineffable surprise. “You refused Erskine because ofherprejudice? But she is always changing; she is the most undependable woman on the face of the earth! She is charming, and I’m fond of her, but I should not take her advice about a pair of gloves. Nothing that she could say would possibly have the slightest influence on my life. She’s irresponsible; she sees entirely from her own standpoint. And Erskine—Erskine is a rock!” She paused, pressing her lips together to still their trembling, and Claire answered with a note of apology in her voice.

“Janet, Iknow! Don’t think I don’t appreciate him. Wait till you hear how it happened... He followed me to the station; it was the very last moment, just as the train was starting. There was time for only one word, and—I was sore and angry!”

Janet looked at her, a long, searching look.

“It’s curious, but I always knew this would come. When I saw you sitting together at supper that first night, I knew then. All the time I knew it in my heart, but on the surface it seemed ridiculous, for you never met!”

“Never that you did not know, except one time in the park. There was nothing to tell you, Janet; nothing to hide.”

“No. So he said. We talked of you in Scotland, you know, and it was just as I thought—a case of recognising each other at first sight. He said the moment he saw you you seemed different from everyone else, and he hoped and believed that you felt the same. That is how people ought to love; the right way, when both are attached, both feel the same... And it is so rare. Yet yourefused!”

“Would you marry a man if his family disapproved?”

“Oh, yes! I should not be marrying the family. I’d be sorry, of course, but I’d make up my mind that in time I’d make them fall in love with me, too. What are you going to do now?”

“Going away. Into the country. I want to be quiet, and think.”

Janet did not ask the address. She sat silent, staring into space, then asked a sudden irrelevant question:

“Did he send you the cuckoo clock?”

“I—think so! It had no name, but it came from Switzerland while he was there. He has never referred to it since.”

“Ah!” Janet began pulling on her gloves. “I knew that, too. Ifeltthat he had sent it. Well! I must go. It will all come right, of course, and you will be very happy. I’ve known Erskine so long, and his wife is sure to be happy.” Janet forced an artificial little laugh. “You will be engaged before me, after all, but I dare say I shall soon follow suit. It’s nice to be loved. As one grows older, one appreciates it more. And Captain Humphreys is a good man.”

“He is splendid! I loved his face. And he is so devoted to you. It was quite beautiful to watch him,” cried Claire, thankful from her heart to be able to enthuse honestly.

A load was lifted from her heart by Janet’s prophecy of her own future. For the moment it had no doubt been made more out of bravado than any real conviction, and inevitably there must be a period of suffering, but Janet was of a naturally buoyant nature, and her wounded spirit would gradually find consolation in the love which had waited so patiently for its reward. It needed no great gift of prophecy to see her in the future, a happy, contented wife.

Back to IndexNext