“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 to write? 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 could not bear 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 the Morning Post. She waved aside Claire’s apologies for her late appearance with easy good nature. No one was expected to 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 he done?”
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.”