The Independence of Claire Part 25

"Well?"

"You look as if you had something to say!"

"I have. Cecil, what are you doing with all this money?"

"That's my business, I suppose!"

"I don't see it, when the money is mine! I think I have the right to ask?"

"I've told you I'll pay you back!"

"That's not the question. I want to know what you are doing _now_! You are not paying your bills."

"I'll sell out some shares to-morrow, and--"

"You shall do no such thing. I can wait, and I will wait, but I can't go on lending; and if I did, it could do you no good. Where does the money go? It does _you_ no good!"

"I am the best judge of that."

"Cecil, _are you lending money to that man_?"

The words leapt out, as on occasion such words will leap, without thought or premeditation on the speaker's part. She did not intend to speak them; if she had given herself one moment for reflection she dared not have spoken them; when their sound struck across the quiet room she was almost as much startled as Cecil herself; yet heart and brain approved their utterance; heart and brain p.r.o.nounced that she had discovered the truth.

Cecil's face was a deep glowing red.

"Really, Claire, you go too far! Why in the world should you think--"

"I saw you with him now in the street. I could see that you were quarrelling; you took no pains to hide it. You left him to come in to me, and went back again. It seems pretty obvious."

"Well! and if I did?" Cecil had plainly decided that denial was useless. "I am responsible for the loan. What does it matter to you who uses it?"

But at that Claire's anger vanished, and she shrank back with a cry of pain and shame.

"And he _took_ it from you? Money! Took it from a girl he professes to love--who is working for herself! Oh, Cecil, how _could_ he? How could you allow him? How can you go on caring for such a man?"

"Don't get hysterical, Claire, please. There's nothing so extraordinary in a man being hard up. It's happened before now in the history of the world. Frank has a position to keep up, and his father--I've told you before how mean and difficult his father is, and it's so important that Frank should keep on good terms just now.--He dare not worry him for money. When he is going to make me a rich woman some day, why should I refuse to lend him a few trifling pounds when he runs short? He's in an expensive regiment; he belongs to an expensive Club; he is obliged to keep up with the other men. If I had twice as much I would lend it with pleasure."

Claire opened her lips to say that at least no more borrowed money should be supplied for Major Carew, but the words were never spoken.

Pity engulfed her, a pa.s.sion of pity for the poor woman who a second time had fallen under the spell of an unscrupulous man. Cecil's explanation had fallen on deaf ears, for Claire could accept no excuses for a man who borrowed from a woman to ensure comfort and luxury for himself. An officer in the King's army! The thing seemed incredible; so incredible that, for the first time, a rising of suspicion mingled with her dislike. Mentally, she rehea.r.s.ed the facts of Major Carew's history as narrated by himself, and found herself doubting every one.

The beautiful house in the country--did it really exist? The eccentric old father who refused to part with his gold--was he flesh and blood, or a fict.i.tious figure invented as a convenient excuse? The fortune which was to enrich the future--_was_ there such a fortune? Or, if there were, was Major Carew in truth the eldest son? Claire felt a devastating helplessness her life abroad had left her ignorant of many British inst.i.tutions; she knew nothing of the books in which she might have traced the Carew history; she had nothing to guide her but her own feminine instinct, but if that instinct were right, what was to become of Mary Rhodes?

Her face looked so sad, so downcast, that Cecil's conscience was p.r.i.c.ked.

"Poor old Claire!" she said gently, "how I do worry you, to be sure!

Never mind, my dear, I'll make it up to you one day. You've been a brick to me, and I shan't forget it. And I'll go to my mother's for the whole of the Easter holidays, and save up my pennies to pay you back.

The poor old soul felt defrauded because I stayed only a week at Christmas, so she'll be thankful to have me. You can go to Brussels with an easy mind, knowing that I'm out of temptation. That will be killing two birds with one stone. What do you say to having cocoa now, instead of waiting till nine o'clock? We've tired ourselves out with all this fuss?"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE MEETING IN HYDE PARK.

It was the end of May. The weather was warm and sunny, the windows of the West End were gay with flowers; in the Park the great beds of rhododendrons blazed forth in a glow of beauty. It was the season, and a particularly gay and festive season at that. "Everybody" was in town, including a few million "n.o.bodies." There were clerks toiling by their thousands in the City, chained all day long to their desks; there were clerks' wives at home in the suburbs, toiling all day too, and sometimes far into the night; there were typists, and shop a.s.sistants, and prosperous heads of households, who worked steadily for five and a half days a week, in order that their families might enjoy comfort and ease, condensing their own relaxation into short Sat.u.r.day afternoons. And there were school-mistresses, too, who saw the sun through form-room windows, but felt its call all the same--the call of the whole glad spring--and grew restless, and nervous, and short in temper. It was not the leaders of society whom they envied; they read of Court b.a.l.l.s, and garden parties, of preparations for Ascot and Henley with a serene detachment, just as they read with indifference in the fas.h.i.+on page of a daily newspaper that "Square watches are the vogue this season, and our _elegantes_ are ordering several specimens of this dainty bauble to match the prevailing colours of their costumes," the while they suffered real pangs at the sight of an "alarming sacrifice" at twenty-nine and six. The one was almost within their grasp; the other floated in the nebulous atmosphere of a different sphere.

In the staff-room at lunch-time the staff grew restless and critical.

The hot joints no longer appealed to their appet.i.tes, the watery vegetables and heavy puddings became things abhorred. They thought of cool salads and _compotes_ on ice, and hated the sight of the greasy brown gravy. They blamed the cook, they blamed the Committee, they said repeatedly, "n.o.body thinks of _us_!" and exchanged anecdotes ill.u.s.trative of the dulness, the stupidity of their pupils. As for the Matric. candidates, they would _all_ fail! There wasn't a chance for a single one. The stupidest set of girls the school had ever possessed!

Oh, certainly they would all fail!

"And then," said Mary Rhodes bitterly, "_we_ shall be blamed."

The Arts mistress said with a sigh--

"Oh, wouldn't it be heavenly to run away from it all, and have a week- end in the country! The gorse will be out, and the hawthorn still in blossom. What's the very cheapest one could do it on for two days?"

Mademoiselle said--

"Absolutely, _ma chere_, there is no help for it. It is necessary that I have a distraction. I must buy a new hat."

Sophie Blake said defiantly to herself--

"Crippled? Ridiculous! I _refuse_ to be crippled. I want to run, and run, and run, and run, and dance, and sing, and jump about! I feel pent! I feel caged! And all that precious money squandered on injections..."

The six weeks' course of treatment had been, from the doctor's point of view, a complete success; from Sophie's a big disappointment. She argued that she was still stiff, still in pain, that the improvement was but small; he pointed out that without the injections she would of a certainty have been worse, and since in arthritis even to remain stationary was a success, to have improved in the smallest degree in six weeks' time might be regarded as a triumph. He prescribed a restful holiday during the Easter vacation, and a second course of treatment on her return. Sophie resigned herself to do without new clothes for the summer, and sold her most treasured possession, a diamond ring which had belonged to her mother, so that the second ten pounds was secure. But how was she to pay back the original loan?

Meanwhile Mrs Willoughby was inquiring among her friends for a suitable post, and had played the good fairy by arranging to send Sophie for the Easter holidays to a country cottage on the Surrey heights, which she ran as a health resort for gentlewomen. Here on a fine dry soil, the air scented with the fragrant breath of the pines, with nothing to do, and plenty of appetising food to eat, the Gym. mistress's general health improved so rapidly that she came back to school with her thin cheeks quite filled out.

"Very satisfactory," said the doctor. "Now I shall be able to get on to stronger doses!"

"What's the good of getting better, only to be made worse?" cried Sophie in rebellion.

Cecil's loan remained unpaid. She had spent her holidays with her mother as arranged, but her finances did not appear to have profited thereby. Dunning for bills became so incessant that the landlady spoke severely of the "credit of the house." She went out constantly in the evening, and several times Claire heard Major Carew's voice at the door, but he never came into the house, and there was no talk of an open engagement.

As for Claire herself, she had had a happy time in Brussels, staying with both English and Belgian friends and re-visiting all the old haunts. She thoroughly enjoyed the change, but could not honestly say that she wished the old life to return. If she came back with a heavy heart, it was neither poverty nor work which she feared, but rather the want of that atmosphere of love and kindliness which make the very essence of home. At the best of times Mary Rhodes was a difficult companion and far from affectionate in manner, but since the giving of that last loan, there had arisen a mental barrier which it seemed impossible to surmount. It had become difficult to keep up a conversation apart from school topics, and both girls found themselves dreading the evening's _tete-a-tete_.

Claire felt like a caged bird beating against the bars. She wanted an outlet from the school life, and the call of the spring was insistent to one who until now had spent the summer in wandering about some of the loveliest scenes in Europe. She wearied of the everlasting streets, and discovered that by hurrying home after afternoon school, making a quick change of clothing, and catching a motor-'bus at the corner of the road, she could reach Hyde Park by half-past five, and spend a happy hour sitting on one of the green chairs, enjoying the beauty of the flowers, and watching the never-ending stream of pedestrians and vehicles.

Sometimes she recognised Mrs Willoughby and Janet bowling past in their luxurious motor, but they never saw her, and she was not anxious that they should. What she wanted was to sit still and rest. Sometimes a smartly-dressed woman, obviously American, would seat herself on the next chair, and inquire as to the best chance of seeing the Queen, and the question being amiably answered, would proceed to unasked confidences. She thought England "sweet." She had just come over to this side. She was staying till the fall. Who was the lady in the elegant blue auto? The London fas.h.i.+ons were just too cute! When they parted, the fair American invariably said, "Pleased to have met you!"

and looked as though she meant it into the bargain, and Claire whole- heartedly echoed the sentiment. She liked these women with their keen, child-like enthusiasm, their friendly, gracious ways. In contrast to them the ordinary Englishwoman seemed cold and aloof.

One brilliant afternoon when the Park was unusually bright and gay, Claire was seated near the Achilles statue, carelessly scanning the pa.s.sers-by, when, with a sudden leap of the heart, she saw Erskine Fanshawe some twenty yards ahead, strolling towards her, accompanied by two ladies. He was talking to his companions with every appearance of enjoyment, and had no attention to spare for the rows of spectators on the ma.s.sed green chairs. Claire felt the blood rush to her face in the shock of surprise and agitation. She had never contemplated the possibility of such a meeting, for Captain Fanshawe had not appeared the type of man who would care to take part in a fas.h.i.+onable parade, and the sudden appearance of the familiar face among the crowd made her heart leap with a force that was physically painful. Then, the excitement over, she realised with a second pang, almost as painful as the first, that in another minute he would have pa.s.sed by, unseeing, unknowing, to disappear into s.p.a.ce for probably months to come. At the thought rebellion arose in her heart. She felt a wild impulse to leave her seat and advance towards him; she longed with a sudden desperation of longing to meet his eyes, to see his smile, but pride held her back. She sat motionless watching with strained eyes.

One of Captain Fanshawe's companions was old, the other young--a pretty, fas.h.i.+onably-dressed girl, who appeared abundantly content with her escort. All three were watching with amus.e.m.e.nt the movements of a stout elderly dame, who sauntered immediately ahead, leading by a leash a French poodle, fantastically shaved, and decorated with ribbon bows.

The stout dame was evidently extravagantly devoted to her pet, and viewed with alarm the approach of a jaunty black and white terrier.

The terrier c.o.c.ked his ears, and elevating his stump of a tail, yapped at the be-ribboned spaniel with all a terrier's contempt, as he advanced to the attack. The stout dame screamed, dropped the leash, and hit at the terrier with the handle of her parasol. The poodle evidently considering flight the best policy, doubled and fled in the direction of the green chairs, to come violently to anchor against Claire's knee.

The crowd stared, the stout dame hurried forward. Claire, placing a soothing hand on the dog's head, lifted a flushed, smiling face, and in so doing caught the lift of a hat, met for the moment the glance of startled eyes.

The stout lady was not at all grateful. She spoke as sharply as though Claire, and Claire alone, had been the cause of her pet's upset. She strode majestically away, leaving Claire trembling, confused, living over again those short moments. She had seen him; he had seen her! He was alive and well, living within a few miles of herself, yet as far apart as in another continent. It was six months since they had last met. It might be six years before they met again. But he had seemed pleased to see her. Short as had been that pa.s.sing glance, there was no mistaking its interest. He was surprised, but pleasure had overridden surprise. If he had been alone, he would have hurried forward with outstretched hand. In imagination she could see him coming, his grave face lightened with joy. Oh, if _only, only_ he had been alone! But he was with friends; he had the air of being content and interested, and the girl was pretty, far prettier than Janet Willoughby.