“And if I have, Claire Gifford, what business is it of yours? What was I saving for? To provide for my old age, wasn’t it? and now that the need has gone, why shouldn’t I lend it, if I chose? Frank happens to be hard up for a few months, and besides, there’s a reason! ... We are getting tired of waiting... You must never, never breathe a word to a soul, but he wants me ... he thinks it might be better...”
Claire stared with wide eyes, Cecil frowned, and finished the sentence in reckless tones—
“We shall probably get married this autumn, and tell his father afterwards.”
“Oh, Cecil, no! Don’t do it! It’s madness. It’s folly. He ought not to ask you. It will make things fifty times more difficult.”
“It would make things sure!” Mary Rhodes said.
The words were such an unconscious revelation of her inner attitude towards her lover, that Claire was smitten with a very passion of pity. She stretched out her hand, and cried ardently. “Cecil, I am thinking of your happiness: I long for you to be sure, but a private marriage is an insult to a girl. It puts her into a wrong position, and no man has the right to suggest it. Where is your pride?”
“Oh, my dear,” interrupted Cecil wearily, “I’m past worrying about pride. I’m thirty-three, and look older, and feel sixty at the least. I’m tired out in body and soul. I’m sick of this empty life. I want a home. I want rest. I want some one to care for me, and take an interest in what I do. Frank isn’t perfect, I don’t pretend that he is. I wish to goodness he would own up, and face the racket once for all, but it’s no use, he won’t! Between ourselves I believe he thinks the old man won’t live much longer, and there will be no need to worry him at all. Any way there it is, he won’t tell at present, however much I may beg, but he will marry me; he wants to be married in September, and that proves that he does care! He is looking out for a flat, and picking up furniture. We are picking up furniture,” Cecil corrected herself hastily. “I go in and ask the prices, and he sends his servants the next week to do the bargaining. And there will be my clothes, too... I’ll pay you back in time, Claire, with ten per cent, interest into the bargain, and perhaps when I’m a rich woman the time may come when you will be glad to borrow from me!”
The prospect was not cheering, but the intention was good, and as such had to be suitably acknowledged. Claire adjourned upstairs to consult her cheque-book, and decided bravely that the drastic bargains could not be afforded. Then, being a very human, and feminine young woman she told herself that there could be no harm in going to look at the dresses once more, just to convince herself that they were not so very drastic after all, and lo! close inspection proved them even more drastic than she had believed, and by the evening’s delivery a choice specimen was speeding by motor van to Laburnum Road.
On visiting days Claire went regularly to visit Sophie, who, by her own account, was being treated to seventeen different cures at the same time, and was too busy being rubbed, and boiled, and electrified, and dosed, and put to bed in the middle of the afternoon, and awakened in the middle of the night, to have any time to feel bored. She took a keen interest also in her fellow patients, and was the confidante of many tragic stories which made her own lot seem light in comparison. Altogether she was more cheerful and hopeful than for months back, but the nurses looked dubious, and could not be induced to speak of her recovery with any certitude.
On the tenth of August, Claire packed her boxes with the aid of a very mountain of tissue paper, and set forth on her journey. The train deposited her at Hazlemere station, outside which Mrs Fanshawe was waiting in a big cream car, smiling her gay, quizzical smile. She was one of the fortunate women who possess the happy knack of making a guest feel comfortable, and at home, and her welcome sent Claire’s spirits racing upwards.