“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 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?”