“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...”
She broke off abruptly, and Claire burst into helpless tears.
“Oh, Cecil, Cecil ... don’t hate me—don’t blame me too much! It’s been hard on me, too. Do you think I liked breaking such news? Of course I will take fresh rooms. I can understand that you’d rather have some one else, but let us still be friends! Don’t turn against me altogether. I’m lonely, too... I’ve got my own trouble!”
“Poor little Claire!” Cecil melted at once, with the quick response which always rewarded an appeal to her better feelings. “Poor little Claire. You’re a good child; you’ve done your best. It isn’t your fault.” She lifted her bag from the table, and took a step towards the door, then resolutely turned back, and held out her hand. “Good-bye. Don’t cry. What’s the good of crying? Good luck to you, my dear, and—take warning by me. I don’t know what your trouble is, but as it isn’t money, it’s probably love.—If it is, don’t play the fool. If the chance of happiness comes along, don’t throw it away out of pride, or obstinacy, or foolish prejudice. You won’t always be young. When you get past thirty, it’s ... it’s hard ... when there’s nothing—”
She broke off again, and walked swiftly from the room.
The next moment the front door banged loudly. Cecil had gone.