The Independence of Claire Part 36

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 fl.u.s.tered 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 pa.s.sion of longing for some one of her own, for the dear, beautiful mother, who if she did not always understand, was always ready to love. Oh, it was hard, unnatural work, this fighting the world alone! Did the girls who grew weary of the restraints of home, ever realise how their working sisters sickened with longing for some one who cared enough even to _interfere_!

Three o'clock, half-past three, a quarter to four. Claire was faint for want of food, and had enough sense to realise that this was a poor preparation for the ordeal ahead; she went downstairs, and threw herself upon Lizzie's mercy.

"Lizzie, I have had no lunch. I'm starving. Could you bring up the tea _now_, and make some fresh for Miss Rhodes when she arrives?"

"Why couldn't you say so before?" Lizzie asked with the freedom of the lodging-house slavey, but the question was spoken in sympathy rather than anger. "The kettle's boiling, and I've cut the bread and b.u.t.ter.

You shall have it in two two's. I'll cut you a sanguidge," she cried as a supreme proof of goodwill, and clattered down the kitchen stairs at express speed.

She was as good as her word. In five minutes tea was ready, and Claire ate and drank, keeping her eyes turned resolutely from the clock.

Before it had struck the hour, there came from the hall the sound of a well-known double knock, and she knew that the hour of her ordeal had arrived.

She did not rise from the table; the tea-things were clattering with the trembling of the hand that was resting upon the tray, she literally had not the strength to rise. She lay back in her chair and stared helplessly at the opening door.

Cecil came in. It came as a shock to see her looking so natural, so entirely the Cecil Claire was accustomed to see. She looked tired, and a trifle cross, but alas! these had been prevailing expressions even in the days when things were going comparatively well. Casual in her own manner, she saw nothing unusual in Claire's lack of welcome, she nodded an off-hand greeting, and drew up a chair to the table.

"Well! I've come. Give me a cup of tea as a start. I've had a rush for it. You said to-day, if possible, and I had nothing special on hand, so I thought I had better come. What's the news, and what's the danger? Which of us does it affect,--me or you?"

"Oh, it's--horrid, horrid, horrid! It's a long story. Finish your tea first, then I'll tell you. I'm _so_ miserable!"

"Poor old girl!" Cecil said kindly, and helped herself to bread and b.u.t.ter. Claire had a miserable conviction that her reply had had a deceptive effect, and that the shock when it came, would be all the more severe. Nevertheless, she was thankful for the reprieve; thankful to see Cecil eat sandwiches with honest enjoyment, until the last one had disappeared from the plate.

"Well!" Cecil pushed aside her cup, and rested an arm on the table.

"Let's get to business. I promised mother I'd catch the six o'clock train back. What's it all about? Some young squire wanting to marry you, and you want my advice? Take him, my dear! You won't always be young and beautiful!"

Claire shook her head.

"Nothing about me. I wouldn't have worried you in the holidays, if--if it hadn't been for your own sake..."

The red flowed into Cecil's cheeks, her face hardened, the tone of her voice was icy cold.

"_My_ sake? I don't understand. I am not aware that you have any responsibility about my affairs!"

"Cecil, I have! I must have. We have lived together. I have loved you--"

Mary Rhodes waved aside the protestations with impatient scorn.

"Don't be sentimental, please! You are not one of the girls. If it's the money, and you are in a hurry to be repaid--"

"I'm not. I'm not! I don't care if you _never_ pay..." Tears of distress rose in Claire's eyes, she caught her breath and cried in a choking sob. "Cecil, it's about--him! I've found out something. I've seen him... Only last night..."

"I thought you might meet as his camp was so near. Suppose you did!

What was so terribly alarming in that?"

"You haven't heard? He hasn't been to see you, or written, or wired, to-day?"

"He has not. Why should he? Don't be hysterical, Claire. If you have anything to say, say it, and let me hear. What have you 'found out'

about Major Carew?"

"He's--_not_ Major Carew!" Claire cried desperately. "He has deceived you, Cecil, and pretended to be ... to be something quite different from what he really is. There _is_ a real Major Carew, and his name is Frank, and he has a home in Surrey, and an invalid father--everything that he told you was true, only--he is not the man! Oh, Cecil, how shall I tell you? It's so dreadfully, dreadfully hard. He knew all about the real Major Carew, and could get hold of photographs to show you, because he--he is his servant, Cecil--his soldier servant... He was with him in camp!"

Cecil rose from her chair, and went over to the empty fireplace, standing with her back to her companion. She spoke no word, and Claire struggled on painfully with her explanations.

"He--the real Major Carew--came over to a tennis party at Mrs Fanshawe's yesterday. I thought, of course, that it was another man of the same name, but he said--he said there was no other in that regiment, and he asked me to tell him some more, and I did, and everything I said amazed him more and more, for it was true about _himself_! Then he asked me to describe--the man, and he made an excuse to send his servant over in the evening so that I should see him. He came. Oh, Cecil! He saw me, and he--ran away! He had not returned this morning. He has _deserted_!"

Still silence. It seemed to Claire of most pitiful import that Cecil made no disclaimer, that at the word of a stranger she accepted her lover's guilt. What a light on the past was cast by that stoney silence, unbroken by a solitary protest. Poor Mary Rhodes had known no doubts as to the man's ident.i.ty, she had given him affection and help, but respect and trust could never have entered into the contract!

Claire had said her say: she leant her elbows on the table, and buried her head in her hands. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily for an endless five minutes. Then Cecil spoke:--

"I suppose," she said harshly, "you expect me to be grateful for this!"

The sound of her voice was like a blow. Claire looked up, startled, protesting.

"Oh, Cecil, surely you would rather know?"

"Should I?" Cecil asked slowly. "Should I?" She turned back to the tireless grate, and her thoughts sped... With her eyes opened she would not, of course, consent to marry this man who had so meanly abused her trust, but--suppose she had not known! Suppose in ignorance the marriage had taken place? If he had been loving, if he had been kind, would she in after days have regretted the step? At the bottom of her weary woman's heart, Cecil answered that she would _not_. The fraud was unpardonable, yet she could have pardoned it, if it had been done for love of herself. No stately Surrey mansion would have been her home, but a cottage of three or four rooms, but it would have been her _own_ cottage, her _own_ home. She would have felt pride in keeping it clean and bright. There would have been some one to work for: some one to care: some one to whom she _mattered_. And suddenly there came the thought of another joy that might have been; she held to her breast a child that was no paid charge, but her very own, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh...

"No! No!" she cried harshly, "I am not grateful. _Why_ did you tell me? Why did you spoil it? What do I care who he was? He was my man; he wanted me. He told lies _because_ he wanted me... I am getting old, and I'm tired and cross, but he cared.--He _did_ care, and he looked up to me, and wanted to appear my equal... Oh, I'm not excusing him. I know all you would say. He deceived me--he borrowed money that he could never pay back, but he would have confessed some day, he would have had to confess, and I should have forgiven him. I'd have forgiven him anything, _because_ he cared ... and after that--he would have cared more--I should have had him. I should have had my home..."

Claire hid her face, and groaned in misery of spirit. From her own point of view it seemed impossible that any woman should regret a man who had proved so unworthy, but once again she reminded herself that her own working life counted only one year, as against Cecil's twelve; once again she felt she had no right to judge. Presently she became aware that Cecil was moving about the room, opening the bureau, and taking papers out of a drawer. At the end of ten minutes she came back to the table, and began drawing on her gloves. Her face was set and tearless, but the lines had deepened into a new distinctness. Claire had a pitiful realisation that this was how Cecil would look when she was _old_.

"Well," she said curtly, "that's finished! I may as well go for my train. I'm sorry to appear ungracious, but you could hardly expect me to be pleased. You meant well, of course, but it's a pity to interfere.

There's just one thing I'd like to make clear--you and I can hardly live together after this. I never was a very agreeable companion, and I shall be worse in the future. It would be better for your own sake to make a fresh start, and for myself--I'm sorry to appear brutal, but I could not stand another winter together. It would remind me too much..."