Volume Three—Chapter Nine.May Begins to See.“Claire.”It was the faintest whisper of a call, but she to whom it was addressed heard it, and leaned over the bed to lay a cool hand upon the little wistful face looking up from the pillow.“How long have I been lying here, Claire?”“Hush, dear; don’t talk,” said Claire tenderly, “you are still so weak.”“Yes, but I must know. If you do not answer my questions, I shall fret and die sooner than I should do if you told me.”“Six weeks, dear.”“Six weeks!” sighed May; “and it seems like a dream. Since I seemed to wake up the day before yesterday, I have been thinking about it all, and I recollect everything now.”She spoke with perfect calmness, and as she went on, Claire’s brow wrinkled.“Poor old dad! How fond he is of me, and how ready to forgive me,” she went on quietly. “Has Frank Burnett been?”Claire shook her head.“Not once?”“No.”“Ah, well, I suppose he would not come. He felt that I was not his wife, and he was glad to cut himself clear from such an unhappy family. Has Sir Harry sent?”“May! dear May!”“I only wanted to know, Claire,” said May quietly. “Don’t be angry with me, dear. It’s all over now. Is he better?”“I believe so. He has gone away.”“Thank God!” said May fervently.Claire turned upon her with wondering eyes.“Yes,” she said again. “Thank God! I should not have liked to see him again, nor to know that he had been to ask for me. I am so weak, Claire. I always—I was so different to you.”Claire sighed, and bent down and kissed the white forehead, beneath which the large eyes look unnaturally bright.“That’s nice,” said May, with a sigh of content. “I wish I had been born such a girl as you. Always so calm and grave. I was so different. I used to feel, and I am sure of it now, that I was like one of the pretty little boats out there at sea, with the great white sails, that are blown over sometimes for want of ballast. I never had any ballast, Claire, and that made me giddy.”“Had you not better be silent now, May dear?” whispered Claire.“No. Perhaps I may not be able to talk to you again, and I should like to tell you everything that is in my mind.”“May, dear!” cried Claire, kissing her lovingly.“You forgive me, then?” sighed May. “I’m glad of that, for I want a deal of forgiving—here—and there,” she added, after a pause.“Which may come the easier, dear, for a life spent in repenting what is past.”“Yes; that would be easy, Claire, easy enough; but it is better as it is with me. I should be so weak and foolish again if I got well.—Claire.”“Yes, dear.”“Has poor Louis been seen again?”“No: not since that night.”May lay silent for a few minutes, and then said softly:“It seems very cruel of him to strike me like that, but he had been true to me, Claire, and I was so weak I couldn’t be true to him, and he is not like us; he is foreign, and loves and hates so passionately. It made him angry and mad against me. As soon as I saw him in the street, after I had written to ask Sir Harry to take me away, I knew there was danger, and I tried so hard to escape. I felt obliged then. Sir Harry had often before begged me to go, but I never would.”“Hush! May, I beg of you.”“No: I must talk,” said May. “I will speak softly so that it shall not hurt me much; but I want to be made happy by telling you everything and getting you to freely forgive me.”“I do—I do freely forgive you, everything, May, dear sister,” whispered Claire, “and you must get well quickly, so that we may go far away from here, and begin life afresh.”“Yes,” said May, with a peculiar smile, “far away, and begin life afresh.”Claire saw her peculiar look, and held her tightly to her breast.“Yes,” said May softly, “it means that, dear. I’ve always been like a spoiled child. Poor papa has made me his idol, and I’ve been so weak and foolish. I can see it all now, since I have been ill. Claire, I hope they will not take poor Louis and punish him for this.”“No, no, dear; he has gone far away; but pray, pray, say no more.”“I must,” she said smiling. “I have wasted so much time that I cannot spare a moment now. Ah, Claire, if I had been like you!”“I wish you had been happier than ever I have been,” said Claire sadly. “Now try and sleep.”“I want to talk to you about baby, Claire dear,” continued May, without heeding her sister’s words.She laughed softly, and her sister gazed at her in wonder, thinking that she was wandering again, as in the days of her long delirium.“I was laughing about baby,” she said. “Such a droll little soft thing. I laughed when I saw it first, for we both seemed to be such bits of girls, and it seemed such nonsense for me to be the poor little tot’s mother. I have never been like a mother to it, though, leaving it always to strangers; but you, Claire, you will see to it, and be a better mother to her than ever I could.”“You shall get better, May, and make your little one a blessing to you when we are far away from here.”“Yes,” said May with the same peculiar look, “far away from here. Poor little baby! Does my father know?”“Yes: everything now, dear.”“Oh, yes, I had forgotten: he kissed me as if he did, and forgave his weak, wilful child.”“How is she?” whispered Denville, entering the room softly a few minutes later.“Asleep,” said Claire in the same tone.“Is she—do you think she—”He trailed off in his speech, and ended by looking imploringly in his daughter’s face.“I dare not say,” said Claire mournfully. “Father, she is very ill.”“Then you must nurse her, Claire,” said the old man excitedly, as he caught her hand to hold it tightly. “You must get her well, so that we can go—all go—far away—where we are not known. We cannot stay here in misery and debt and disgrace. Everything is against us now. My old position is gone. I dare not walk to the Assembly-Room, for fear of some insult or slight. I am the Master of the Ceremonies only in name. I am disgraced.”“Then we will go,” said Claire sadly; “but it cannot be yet. Have patience, dear.”She laid her hand upon the old man’s shoulder, and bent forward and kissed his cheek.He caught her in his arms.“You do not shrink from me?” he said bitterly.“Shrink? No, father; I am your child. Now, tell me—about money—what are we to do?”Denville shook his head.“There is only one way out of the difficulty, Claire.”“A way, father?”“Yes; Lord Carboro’ spoke to me again this morning on the Parade. He came up to me like the gentleman he is, and just as I had been openly cut by townsman after townsman. He shook hands with me and took my arm, Claire, and—and—I told him he might come here—to-day—and speak to you.”“Oh, father, what have you done? You have not taken money from him?”“No—no—no!” cried the old man indignantly. “I have not sunk so low as that; but it was tempting. That man Isaac has grown insolent, and has twice come home intoxicated. Claire, I am the fellow’s slave while I am in his debt. I want to send him away, but I cannot. Hush!”There was a double knock at the door, and Denville went softly down, leaving Claire with a fresh agony to battle against, for, few as had been her father’s words, they had been sufficiently plain to make her ask herself whether it was not her duty to give up everything—to sell herself, as it were, to this old nobleman, that her father might be saved from penury, and her sister placed beyond the reach of want; for her home must in future be with them.“Have we not at last reached the very dregs of bitterness?” she said wildly. “Heaven help me in this cruel strait!”The door opened softly, and Denville signed to Claire to come to him on the landing.“It is Lord Carboro’,” he whispered. “You must speak to him.”Claire shrank back for a moment, but her firmness returned, and she closed the door and followed her father to take his hand.“I would do everything, now, father, even to this,” she said solemnly; “but it is impossible. Ask yourself.”“Yes,” he said sadly, “it is impossible. But it is very hard—to see wealth and prosperity for you, my child, and to have to sayno. But it is impossible. Speak gently to the old man. He has been a good friend to me.”It seemed as if a mist was about her as Claire Denville entered the drawing-room, beyond which she could dimly see Lord Carboro’, looking almost grotesque in his quaint costume and careful get-up, fresh from the hands of his valet. He had been labouring hard to appear forty; but anxiety and the inexorable truth made him look at least seventy, as he rose, bowed, and placed a chair for the pale, graceful girl, and then took one near her.The old man had prepared a set speech of a very florid nature, for, matter-of-fact worldling as he was, he had felt himself weak and helpless before the woman for whom he had quite a doting affection. But the sight of Claire’s grief-stricken face and the recollection of the suffering and mental care through which she must have passed, drove away all thought of his prepared words, and he felt more like a simple-hearted old man full of pity than he had ever been before.He took her hand, which was given up unresistingly, and after a thoughtful look in the calm clear eyes that met his, he said slowly:“My dear Miss Denville, I came here to-day, a vain weak man, full of the desire to appear young; but you have driven away all this shallow pretence, for I feel that you can see me clearly as what I am, an old fellow of seventy. Hush! don’t speak my dear child till I have done. I have always admired you as a beautiful girl: I now love you as the sweet, patient, suffering woman who has devoted herself to others.”“Lord Carboro’—”“No, no; let me try and finish, my dear. I will be very brief. It would be a mockery to speak flattering follies to such a one as you. Tell me first—Did your father give you to understand that I was coming?”Claire bent her head.“Then let me say simply, my child, that if you will be my wife and give me such love as your sweet dutiful heart will teach you to give to the doting old man who asks you, I will try all I can to make your young life happy, and place it in your power to make a pleasant home somewhere for poor old Denville, and your sister. We must bring her round. A trip abroad with your father, and—and—dear me—dear me, my child, I am rambling strangely, and hardly know what I say, only that I ask you to be my wife, and in return you shall be mistress of all I possess. I know the difference in our ages, and what the world will say; but I could afford to laugh at the world for the few years I should be likely to stay in it, and afterwards, my child, you would be free and rich, and with no duty left but to think kindly of the old man who was gone.”Claire listened to the old man’s words with a strange swelling sensation in her breast. The tears gathered slowly in her eyes as she gazed wistfully at him, wondering at the tender respect he paid her, and one by one they brimmed over and trickled down.She could not speak, but at last in the gratitude of her heart, as she thought of the sacrifice he made in offering her rank and riches, after the miserable scandals of which she had been the victim, she raised his withered hand slowly to her lips.“No, no,” he cried, “not that. You consent then?”“No, my lord,” said Claire firmly. “It is impossible.”“Then—then,” he cried testily. “You do love someone else.”Claire bowed her head, and her eyes looked resentment for a moment. Then in a low sweet voice she said:“Even if I could say to you, Lord Carboro’ my heart is free, and I will try to be your loving, dutiful wife, there are reasons which make it impossible.”“These troubles—that I will not name. I know, I know,” he said hastily; “but they are miserable family troubles, not yours.”“Troubles that are mine, Lord Carboro’, and which I must share. Forgive me if I give you pain, but I could never be your wife.”The old man dropped the hand he held, and his face was full of resentment as he replied:“Do you know what you are throwing away?” Then, checking himself, “No, no, I spoke angrily—like a thoughtless boy. Don’t take any notice of my words, but think—pray think of your father—of your sister. How you could help them in the position you would hold.”“Lord Carboro’,” said Claire, “I am weak, heart-sick and worn with watching. I can hardly find words to thank you, and I want you to think me grateful, but what you ask is impossible. It can never be.”The old man rose angrily and took a turn or two about the room, as he strove hard to fight down his bitter mortification.Twice over he stopped before her, and his lips parted to speak, but he resumed his hurried walk, ending by catching her hands and kissing them.“Good-bye,” he said abruptly. “I shall try to be your friend, and—and I never loved you half so much as I do now.”He left the room, and Claire heard his footsteps on the path, and then, in spite of herself, she stole towards the window from which she saw him go slowly along the Parade, looking bent, and as if his coming had aged him ten years at least.The opening of the drawing-room door roused Claire, and turning, she saw that her father had entered, and that he was trembling as he gazed at her with a curiously wistful look that was one long question.Claire shook her head slowly as she returned his gaze, with her thoughts reverting to the night when she sank fainting where she stood, and the notes of the serenade floated in at the window.“No, father,” she said softly; “it would be impossible.”“Yes,” he said feebly; “impossible!”
“Claire.”
It was the faintest whisper of a call, but she to whom it was addressed heard it, and leaned over the bed to lay a cool hand upon the little wistful face looking up from the pillow.
“How long have I been lying here, Claire?”
“Hush, dear; don’t talk,” said Claire tenderly, “you are still so weak.”
“Yes, but I must know. If you do not answer my questions, I shall fret and die sooner than I should do if you told me.”
“Six weeks, dear.”
“Six weeks!” sighed May; “and it seems like a dream. Since I seemed to wake up the day before yesterday, I have been thinking about it all, and I recollect everything now.”
She spoke with perfect calmness, and as she went on, Claire’s brow wrinkled.
“Poor old dad! How fond he is of me, and how ready to forgive me,” she went on quietly. “Has Frank Burnett been?”
Claire shook her head.
“Not once?”
“No.”
“Ah, well, I suppose he would not come. He felt that I was not his wife, and he was glad to cut himself clear from such an unhappy family. Has Sir Harry sent?”
“May! dear May!”
“I only wanted to know, Claire,” said May quietly. “Don’t be angry with me, dear. It’s all over now. Is he better?”
“I believe so. He has gone away.”
“Thank God!” said May fervently.
Claire turned upon her with wondering eyes.
“Yes,” she said again. “Thank God! I should not have liked to see him again, nor to know that he had been to ask for me. I am so weak, Claire. I always—I was so different to you.”
Claire sighed, and bent down and kissed the white forehead, beneath which the large eyes look unnaturally bright.
“That’s nice,” said May, with a sigh of content. “I wish I had been born such a girl as you. Always so calm and grave. I was so different. I used to feel, and I am sure of it now, that I was like one of the pretty little boats out there at sea, with the great white sails, that are blown over sometimes for want of ballast. I never had any ballast, Claire, and that made me giddy.”
“Had you not better be silent now, May dear?” whispered Claire.
“No. Perhaps I may not be able to talk to you again, and I should like to tell you everything that is in my mind.”
“May, dear!” cried Claire, kissing her lovingly.
“You forgive me, then?” sighed May. “I’m glad of that, for I want a deal of forgiving—here—and there,” she added, after a pause.
“Which may come the easier, dear, for a life spent in repenting what is past.”
“Yes; that would be easy, Claire, easy enough; but it is better as it is with me. I should be so weak and foolish again if I got well.—Claire.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Has poor Louis been seen again?”
“No: not since that night.”
May lay silent for a few minutes, and then said softly:
“It seems very cruel of him to strike me like that, but he had been true to me, Claire, and I was so weak I couldn’t be true to him, and he is not like us; he is foreign, and loves and hates so passionately. It made him angry and mad against me. As soon as I saw him in the street, after I had written to ask Sir Harry to take me away, I knew there was danger, and I tried so hard to escape. I felt obliged then. Sir Harry had often before begged me to go, but I never would.”
“Hush! May, I beg of you.”
“No: I must talk,” said May. “I will speak softly so that it shall not hurt me much; but I want to be made happy by telling you everything and getting you to freely forgive me.”
“I do—I do freely forgive you, everything, May, dear sister,” whispered Claire, “and you must get well quickly, so that we may go far away from here, and begin life afresh.”
“Yes,” said May, with a peculiar smile, “far away, and begin life afresh.”
Claire saw her peculiar look, and held her tightly to her breast.
“Yes,” said May softly, “it means that, dear. I’ve always been like a spoiled child. Poor papa has made me his idol, and I’ve been so weak and foolish. I can see it all now, since I have been ill. Claire, I hope they will not take poor Louis and punish him for this.”
“No, no, dear; he has gone far away; but pray, pray, say no more.”
“I must,” she said smiling. “I have wasted so much time that I cannot spare a moment now. Ah, Claire, if I had been like you!”
“I wish you had been happier than ever I have been,” said Claire sadly. “Now try and sleep.”
“I want to talk to you about baby, Claire dear,” continued May, without heeding her sister’s words.
She laughed softly, and her sister gazed at her in wonder, thinking that she was wandering again, as in the days of her long delirium.
“I was laughing about baby,” she said. “Such a droll little soft thing. I laughed when I saw it first, for we both seemed to be such bits of girls, and it seemed such nonsense for me to be the poor little tot’s mother. I have never been like a mother to it, though, leaving it always to strangers; but you, Claire, you will see to it, and be a better mother to her than ever I could.”
“You shall get better, May, and make your little one a blessing to you when we are far away from here.”
“Yes,” said May with the same peculiar look, “far away from here. Poor little baby! Does my father know?”
“Yes: everything now, dear.”
“Oh, yes, I had forgotten: he kissed me as if he did, and forgave his weak, wilful child.”
“How is she?” whispered Denville, entering the room softly a few minutes later.
“Asleep,” said Claire in the same tone.
“Is she—do you think she—”
He trailed off in his speech, and ended by looking imploringly in his daughter’s face.
“I dare not say,” said Claire mournfully. “Father, she is very ill.”
“Then you must nurse her, Claire,” said the old man excitedly, as he caught her hand to hold it tightly. “You must get her well, so that we can go—all go—far away—where we are not known. We cannot stay here in misery and debt and disgrace. Everything is against us now. My old position is gone. I dare not walk to the Assembly-Room, for fear of some insult or slight. I am the Master of the Ceremonies only in name. I am disgraced.”
“Then we will go,” said Claire sadly; “but it cannot be yet. Have patience, dear.”
She laid her hand upon the old man’s shoulder, and bent forward and kissed his cheek.
He caught her in his arms.
“You do not shrink from me?” he said bitterly.
“Shrink? No, father; I am your child. Now, tell me—about money—what are we to do?”
Denville shook his head.
“There is only one way out of the difficulty, Claire.”
“A way, father?”
“Yes; Lord Carboro’ spoke to me again this morning on the Parade. He came up to me like the gentleman he is, and just as I had been openly cut by townsman after townsman. He shook hands with me and took my arm, Claire, and—and—I told him he might come here—to-day—and speak to you.”
“Oh, father, what have you done? You have not taken money from him?”
“No—no—no!” cried the old man indignantly. “I have not sunk so low as that; but it was tempting. That man Isaac has grown insolent, and has twice come home intoxicated. Claire, I am the fellow’s slave while I am in his debt. I want to send him away, but I cannot. Hush!”
There was a double knock at the door, and Denville went softly down, leaving Claire with a fresh agony to battle against, for, few as had been her father’s words, they had been sufficiently plain to make her ask herself whether it was not her duty to give up everything—to sell herself, as it were, to this old nobleman, that her father might be saved from penury, and her sister placed beyond the reach of want; for her home must in future be with them.
“Have we not at last reached the very dregs of bitterness?” she said wildly. “Heaven help me in this cruel strait!”
The door opened softly, and Denville signed to Claire to come to him on the landing.
“It is Lord Carboro’,” he whispered. “You must speak to him.”
Claire shrank back for a moment, but her firmness returned, and she closed the door and followed her father to take his hand.
“I would do everything, now, father, even to this,” she said solemnly; “but it is impossible. Ask yourself.”
“Yes,” he said sadly, “it is impossible. But it is very hard—to see wealth and prosperity for you, my child, and to have to sayno. But it is impossible. Speak gently to the old man. He has been a good friend to me.”
It seemed as if a mist was about her as Claire Denville entered the drawing-room, beyond which she could dimly see Lord Carboro’, looking almost grotesque in his quaint costume and careful get-up, fresh from the hands of his valet. He had been labouring hard to appear forty; but anxiety and the inexorable truth made him look at least seventy, as he rose, bowed, and placed a chair for the pale, graceful girl, and then took one near her.
The old man had prepared a set speech of a very florid nature, for, matter-of-fact worldling as he was, he had felt himself weak and helpless before the woman for whom he had quite a doting affection. But the sight of Claire’s grief-stricken face and the recollection of the suffering and mental care through which she must have passed, drove away all thought of his prepared words, and he felt more like a simple-hearted old man full of pity than he had ever been before.
He took her hand, which was given up unresistingly, and after a thoughtful look in the calm clear eyes that met his, he said slowly:
“My dear Miss Denville, I came here to-day, a vain weak man, full of the desire to appear young; but you have driven away all this shallow pretence, for I feel that you can see me clearly as what I am, an old fellow of seventy. Hush! don’t speak my dear child till I have done. I have always admired you as a beautiful girl: I now love you as the sweet, patient, suffering woman who has devoted herself to others.”
“Lord Carboro’—”
“No, no; let me try and finish, my dear. I will be very brief. It would be a mockery to speak flattering follies to such a one as you. Tell me first—Did your father give you to understand that I was coming?”
Claire bent her head.
“Then let me say simply, my child, that if you will be my wife and give me such love as your sweet dutiful heart will teach you to give to the doting old man who asks you, I will try all I can to make your young life happy, and place it in your power to make a pleasant home somewhere for poor old Denville, and your sister. We must bring her round. A trip abroad with your father, and—and—dear me—dear me, my child, I am rambling strangely, and hardly know what I say, only that I ask you to be my wife, and in return you shall be mistress of all I possess. I know the difference in our ages, and what the world will say; but I could afford to laugh at the world for the few years I should be likely to stay in it, and afterwards, my child, you would be free and rich, and with no duty left but to think kindly of the old man who was gone.”
Claire listened to the old man’s words with a strange swelling sensation in her breast. The tears gathered slowly in her eyes as she gazed wistfully at him, wondering at the tender respect he paid her, and one by one they brimmed over and trickled down.
She could not speak, but at last in the gratitude of her heart, as she thought of the sacrifice he made in offering her rank and riches, after the miserable scandals of which she had been the victim, she raised his withered hand slowly to her lips.
“No, no,” he cried, “not that. You consent then?”
“No, my lord,” said Claire firmly. “It is impossible.”
“Then—then,” he cried testily. “You do love someone else.”
Claire bowed her head, and her eyes looked resentment for a moment. Then in a low sweet voice she said:
“Even if I could say to you, Lord Carboro’ my heart is free, and I will try to be your loving, dutiful wife, there are reasons which make it impossible.”
“These troubles—that I will not name. I know, I know,” he said hastily; “but they are miserable family troubles, not yours.”
“Troubles that are mine, Lord Carboro’, and which I must share. Forgive me if I give you pain, but I could never be your wife.”
The old man dropped the hand he held, and his face was full of resentment as he replied:
“Do you know what you are throwing away?” Then, checking himself, “No, no, I spoke angrily—like a thoughtless boy. Don’t take any notice of my words, but think—pray think of your father—of your sister. How you could help them in the position you would hold.”
“Lord Carboro’,” said Claire, “I am weak, heart-sick and worn with watching. I can hardly find words to thank you, and I want you to think me grateful, but what you ask is impossible. It can never be.”
The old man rose angrily and took a turn or two about the room, as he strove hard to fight down his bitter mortification.
Twice over he stopped before her, and his lips parted to speak, but he resumed his hurried walk, ending by catching her hands and kissing them.
“Good-bye,” he said abruptly. “I shall try to be your friend, and—and I never loved you half so much as I do now.”
He left the room, and Claire heard his footsteps on the path, and then, in spite of herself, she stole towards the window from which she saw him go slowly along the Parade, looking bent, and as if his coming had aged him ten years at least.
The opening of the drawing-room door roused Claire, and turning, she saw that her father had entered, and that he was trembling as he gazed at her with a curiously wistful look that was one long question.
Claire shook her head slowly as she returned his gaze, with her thoughts reverting to the night when she sank fainting where she stood, and the notes of the serenade floated in at the window.
“No, father,” she said softly; “it would be impossible.”
“Yes,” he said feebly; “impossible!”
Volume Three—Chapter Ten.The Storm-Cloud Bursts.That night, as Claire sat by the open window of her bedroom, where May lay sleeping, and the flowers that she had tended so carefully in the past for the most part withered and dry, her thoughts went back to the morning’s interview with Lord Carboro’, and there was a feeling of regret in her breast as she thought of the old man’s chivalrous devotion.Then her heart seemed to stand still, and again beat with a wild tumult as she told herself that the silent reproach she had felt was not justified; that it was her own doing, that Richard Linnell was not at her side. For that was his step, and she knew that he would stop opposite to her darkened window and gaze upwards before passing on.There was pleasure and yet pain in the thought, for she felt that though it was impossible that they could ever even be friends, he must believe in her and she must dwell in his heart.How often might he not have passed like that, and looked up, thinking of her!It was a pleasant thought, but one that she dismissed at once, as if it were a temptation.Trying to stop her ears to the sounds, she crept back from the window, and bent over May, who seemed to be sleeping more easily; and a feeling of hope began to lighten the darkness in her heart, and the black shadow of dread that so oppressed her was forgotten, till, all at once, it came back, blacker, more impenetrable than ever, as the sound of voices loud in altercation rose from below.Claire’s heart stood still, and she held on by a chair-back, listening with her lips apart, and wondering whether this was the bolt fallen at last—the blow she was always dreading, and that she felt must one day come.She crept to the door, passed out and listened, closing it after her that the noise might not awaken May, to whom sleep meant life.Angry voices rose, and then there were the sounds of blows struck apparently with a cane. Then there was a scuffling noise, and the front door was driven back.“Leave the house, scoundrel! leave my house, insolent dog!” came up sharp and clear in her father’s voice, quivering with anger, and the scuffle was renewed.“You pay me my wages; you pay me what you owe me, or I don’t stir a step.”The voice that uttered these last words was thick and husky, and full of menace. It was a familiar voice, though, that Claire recognised, and her cheeks burned with shame as she felt that passers-by, perhaps Richard Linnell, would hear the degrading words that were uttered.Her sister lying there sick, and this pitiful disturbance that was increasing in loudness, and must be heard by any one who happened to be upon the Parade!She hurried down to find that the scuffling sounds had been renewed, and as she reached the passage it was to find that her father was trying to drag Isaac to the door, and force him into the road, where quite a little crowd was collecting.“Leave this house, sir, directly.”“I shan’t for you,” cried Isaac, resisting stoutly. “I want my wages. I want my box.”“Leave this house, you drunken insolent scoundrel!”“Father! for pity’s sake,” cried Claire, trying to interfere.“No, no; stand back, my child,” cried the old man angrily. “He has come back again to-night tipsy. He has insulted me once more, and he shall not stay here—I can turn him out, and I will.”“Not you, and I shan’t go,” hiccupped Isaac, seizing the plinth at the bottom of the balusters and holding on. “I don’t go from here ’thout my money—every penny of it, so now, old Denville.”“Pray, pray let me pass, father, and shut the door,” cried Claire.“No, my dear,” said the old man, whose blood was now up. “He shall leave this house at once.”“No, I shan’t leave neither without my box.”The struggle went on, and the lamp would have been knocked off the bracket but for Claire’s hand. The contending parties swayed here and there, but it was evident that the footman was far the stronger, while Denville’s forces were failing moment by moment.“Can I be of any assistance, Mr Denville?” said a voice that thrilled Claire through and through, but which made her shrink back up a few stairs to avoid being seen.“Who’s that?—Mr Linnell? Yes,” panted Denville. “My servant, sir—my lacquey. This is the fourth time he has come back from being absent without leave, intoxicated, sir. Tipsy. Not fit to come into a gentleman’s presence.”“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Isaac—“Gentleman’s presence! I don’t call you a gentleman. Why, you’re all that’s mean and shabby and poor. Just you pay me my wages in arrears.”“Come to-morrow, scoundrel,” said Denville loftily. “Mr Linnell, if you would kindly send one of the people outside for a constable. He will find one by the Assembly-Room. Let him say that the man is wanted at Mr Denville’s—at the Master of the Ceremonies’, and he will come on directly.”Linnell glanced up at where Claire was turning back in shame and distress of mind, little thinking that in a few minutes she would be bravely standing at her father’s side.“Fetch a constable!” cried Isaac defiantly. “Do, if you dare. What do I care for a constable?”“Why don’t you pay the man his wages?” said a voice at the door.“Ah, to be sure,” cried Isaac, with a tipsy laugh. “Why don’t you pay the man his wages? ’Cause you can’t. Beggarly old upstart.”“Silence, you scoundrel!” cried Linnell fiercely, “or I’ll drag you out and throw you over the cliff for your insolence.”“Do it—do it!” cried Isaac fiercely. “Who’s afraid?”“Silence, dog!” cried Denville, catching up his cane.“Don’t strike him, Mr Denville,” said Linnell. “Some one there fetch a constable. Five shillings for the first man who brings one here.”“Don’t you, m’lads,” cried Isaac. “He daren’t send for a constable. I tell you he daren’t—not for me. Send for one for himself.”Claire trembled and shuddered at those words; and, had it been possible, she would have ended the scene at any cost, but she was helpless.For a moment Linnell had thought of seizing and dragging out the tipsy servant; but on second consideration he felt that it might just as well be done by some one in authority, so, hurrying out, he despatched one of the crowd in another direction to that taken by the two or three who had hurried off on the promise of a reward, and then turned back to see if he could be of any further service.“Cons’able for me!” said Isaac, with tipsy gravity. “I like that. I like that—much. Let him come. Make him pay memywages. Then I’ll go. Not before, if all the old Masters o’ Ceremonies in England wanted me to go.”“The insolent scoundrel!” panted Denville; “after all I’ve done for him since he came to me a boy.”“Done for me! Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Isaac; “kept me on short commons, and didn’t pay my wages. Now, then, are you going to pay my money?”“Here he is.” “Here’s one,” rose in chorus, and way was made for the fussy-looking individual who occupied the post of chief constable of Saltinville.“Now, then, what’s this?” he said.“Tipsy servant,” chorussed half—a—dozen voices. “Drunk.”“My servant, Mr Cordy,” said Denville importantly. “He has misconducted himself again and again. You see the condition he is in.”“Yes, I see,” said the constable. “Come along.”“Wait till he pays my wages,” hiccupped Isaac.“You can talk about that another time,” said the constable importantly. “Come along.”He seized the footman, gave him a shake which wrenched his fingers from their hold upon the bottom of the balusters, and with another shake jerked him upon his feet.But Isaac was not going to be dragged off like that without making a scene, and he shouted out:“Stop!”“Well, what is it?” said the constable.“Does he give me into custody, cons’ble?”“Yes. Come along.”“Then I give him into custody—do you hear?—custody—for murder. I won’t go alone.”“There, come along, fool,” cried the constable.“No—not without him,” cried Isaac. “Murder!”“Silence!” cried Denville excitedly, as Claire rushed down the stairs and caught her father’s arm.“Shan’t silence!” yelled the man, who now threw off his half-tipsy, contemptuous manner, and seemed stung by the treatment he had received into a fit of furious passion. “I give him into custody—for murder.”“Nonsense! Hold your tongue, and come along,” cried the constable; while Linnell seized the man on the other side, and hurriedly tried to force him out.But it is not easy to get a man along a narrow passage if he resists fiercely; and so they found, for, setting his feet against the edge of the dining-room door, Isaac thrust himself back, and yelled to the throng at the door:“Do you hear? For murder! I charge this man—Denville—with killing old Lady Teigne.”“Silence, villain!” hissed Linnell in his ear, as he darted an agonised glance at where Claire was half supporting her father, while the black cloud she had seen impending so long seemed to have fallen at last.“Silence? When there’s murder?” shouted Isaac. “I tell you I heard a noise, and got up, and then I saw him go to Lady Teigne’s room, the night she was murdered. Ask him there who did it, and see what he’ll say.”“Father, come away!” panted Claire, as she threw herself before him, as if to defend him against this terrible charge.“What’s that?” cried the constable. “Oh, nonsense! Come along.”“I tell you it’s true,” cried Isaac, with drunken fierceness; “it’s true. I saw him go to her room. Let him deny it if he can.”Denville stood up, holding tightly by Claire’s arm, and looking wildly from one to the other as a strange murmur rose amongst the fast-augmenting crowd. Then, as if it were vain to fight against the charge, he made a lurch forward, recovered himself, and sank into a chair, Richard Linnell catching sight of his ghastly countenance before he covered it with his hands.“It is a false charge, constable,” cried Linnell hastily. “Take that man away.”“It’s all true,” snarled Isaac, with drunken triumph. “Look at him. Let him say he didn’t do it if he dare!”As every eye was fixed upon him, the Master of the Ceremonies did not move; he made no bold defiance, but seemed half paralysed by the bolt that had fallen—one from which his child had failed to screen him, though she had thrown herself upon his breast.
That night, as Claire sat by the open window of her bedroom, where May lay sleeping, and the flowers that she had tended so carefully in the past for the most part withered and dry, her thoughts went back to the morning’s interview with Lord Carboro’, and there was a feeling of regret in her breast as she thought of the old man’s chivalrous devotion.
Then her heart seemed to stand still, and again beat with a wild tumult as she told herself that the silent reproach she had felt was not justified; that it was her own doing, that Richard Linnell was not at her side. For that was his step, and she knew that he would stop opposite to her darkened window and gaze upwards before passing on.
There was pleasure and yet pain in the thought, for she felt that though it was impossible that they could ever even be friends, he must believe in her and she must dwell in his heart.
How often might he not have passed like that, and looked up, thinking of her!
It was a pleasant thought, but one that she dismissed at once, as if it were a temptation.
Trying to stop her ears to the sounds, she crept back from the window, and bent over May, who seemed to be sleeping more easily; and a feeling of hope began to lighten the darkness in her heart, and the black shadow of dread that so oppressed her was forgotten, till, all at once, it came back, blacker, more impenetrable than ever, as the sound of voices loud in altercation rose from below.
Claire’s heart stood still, and she held on by a chair-back, listening with her lips apart, and wondering whether this was the bolt fallen at last—the blow she was always dreading, and that she felt must one day come.
She crept to the door, passed out and listened, closing it after her that the noise might not awaken May, to whom sleep meant life.
Angry voices rose, and then there were the sounds of blows struck apparently with a cane. Then there was a scuffling noise, and the front door was driven back.
“Leave the house, scoundrel! leave my house, insolent dog!” came up sharp and clear in her father’s voice, quivering with anger, and the scuffle was renewed.
“You pay me my wages; you pay me what you owe me, or I don’t stir a step.”
The voice that uttered these last words was thick and husky, and full of menace. It was a familiar voice, though, that Claire recognised, and her cheeks burned with shame as she felt that passers-by, perhaps Richard Linnell, would hear the degrading words that were uttered.
Her sister lying there sick, and this pitiful disturbance that was increasing in loudness, and must be heard by any one who happened to be upon the Parade!
She hurried down to find that the scuffling sounds had been renewed, and as she reached the passage it was to find that her father was trying to drag Isaac to the door, and force him into the road, where quite a little crowd was collecting.
“Leave this house, sir, directly.”
“I shan’t for you,” cried Isaac, resisting stoutly. “I want my wages. I want my box.”
“Leave this house, you drunken insolent scoundrel!”
“Father! for pity’s sake,” cried Claire, trying to interfere.
“No, no; stand back, my child,” cried the old man angrily. “He has come back again to-night tipsy. He has insulted me once more, and he shall not stay here—I can turn him out, and I will.”
“Not you, and I shan’t go,” hiccupped Isaac, seizing the plinth at the bottom of the balusters and holding on. “I don’t go from here ’thout my money—every penny of it, so now, old Denville.”
“Pray, pray let me pass, father, and shut the door,” cried Claire.
“No, my dear,” said the old man, whose blood was now up. “He shall leave this house at once.”
“No, I shan’t leave neither without my box.”
The struggle went on, and the lamp would have been knocked off the bracket but for Claire’s hand. The contending parties swayed here and there, but it was evident that the footman was far the stronger, while Denville’s forces were failing moment by moment.
“Can I be of any assistance, Mr Denville?” said a voice that thrilled Claire through and through, but which made her shrink back up a few stairs to avoid being seen.
“Who’s that?—Mr Linnell? Yes,” panted Denville. “My servant, sir—my lacquey. This is the fourth time he has come back from being absent without leave, intoxicated, sir. Tipsy. Not fit to come into a gentleman’s presence.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Isaac—“Gentleman’s presence! I don’t call you a gentleman. Why, you’re all that’s mean and shabby and poor. Just you pay me my wages in arrears.”
“Come to-morrow, scoundrel,” said Denville loftily. “Mr Linnell, if you would kindly send one of the people outside for a constable. He will find one by the Assembly-Room. Let him say that the man is wanted at Mr Denville’s—at the Master of the Ceremonies’, and he will come on directly.”
Linnell glanced up at where Claire was turning back in shame and distress of mind, little thinking that in a few minutes she would be bravely standing at her father’s side.
“Fetch a constable!” cried Isaac defiantly. “Do, if you dare. What do I care for a constable?”
“Why don’t you pay the man his wages?” said a voice at the door.
“Ah, to be sure,” cried Isaac, with a tipsy laugh. “Why don’t you pay the man his wages? ’Cause you can’t. Beggarly old upstart.”
“Silence, you scoundrel!” cried Linnell fiercely, “or I’ll drag you out and throw you over the cliff for your insolence.”
“Do it—do it!” cried Isaac fiercely. “Who’s afraid?”
“Silence, dog!” cried Denville, catching up his cane.
“Don’t strike him, Mr Denville,” said Linnell. “Some one there fetch a constable. Five shillings for the first man who brings one here.”
“Don’t you, m’lads,” cried Isaac. “He daren’t send for a constable. I tell you he daren’t—not for me. Send for one for himself.”
Claire trembled and shuddered at those words; and, had it been possible, she would have ended the scene at any cost, but she was helpless.
For a moment Linnell had thought of seizing and dragging out the tipsy servant; but on second consideration he felt that it might just as well be done by some one in authority, so, hurrying out, he despatched one of the crowd in another direction to that taken by the two or three who had hurried off on the promise of a reward, and then turned back to see if he could be of any further service.
“Cons’able for me!” said Isaac, with tipsy gravity. “I like that. I like that—much. Let him come. Make him pay memywages. Then I’ll go. Not before, if all the old Masters o’ Ceremonies in England wanted me to go.”
“The insolent scoundrel!” panted Denville; “after all I’ve done for him since he came to me a boy.”
“Done for me! Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Isaac; “kept me on short commons, and didn’t pay my wages. Now, then, are you going to pay my money?”
“Here he is.” “Here’s one,” rose in chorus, and way was made for the fussy-looking individual who occupied the post of chief constable of Saltinville.
“Now, then, what’s this?” he said.
“Tipsy servant,” chorussed half—a—dozen voices. “Drunk.”
“My servant, Mr Cordy,” said Denville importantly. “He has misconducted himself again and again. You see the condition he is in.”
“Yes, I see,” said the constable. “Come along.”
“Wait till he pays my wages,” hiccupped Isaac.
“You can talk about that another time,” said the constable importantly. “Come along.”
He seized the footman, gave him a shake which wrenched his fingers from their hold upon the bottom of the balusters, and with another shake jerked him upon his feet.
But Isaac was not going to be dragged off like that without making a scene, and he shouted out:
“Stop!”
“Well, what is it?” said the constable.
“Does he give me into custody, cons’ble?”
“Yes. Come along.”
“Then I give him into custody—do you hear?—custody—for murder. I won’t go alone.”
“There, come along, fool,” cried the constable.
“No—not without him,” cried Isaac. “Murder!”
“Silence!” cried Denville excitedly, as Claire rushed down the stairs and caught her father’s arm.
“Shan’t silence!” yelled the man, who now threw off his half-tipsy, contemptuous manner, and seemed stung by the treatment he had received into a fit of furious passion. “I give him into custody—for murder.”
“Nonsense! Hold your tongue, and come along,” cried the constable; while Linnell seized the man on the other side, and hurriedly tried to force him out.
But it is not easy to get a man along a narrow passage if he resists fiercely; and so they found, for, setting his feet against the edge of the dining-room door, Isaac thrust himself back, and yelled to the throng at the door:
“Do you hear? For murder! I charge this man—Denville—with killing old Lady Teigne.”
“Silence, villain!” hissed Linnell in his ear, as he darted an agonised glance at where Claire was half supporting her father, while the black cloud she had seen impending so long seemed to have fallen at last.
“Silence? When there’s murder?” shouted Isaac. “I tell you I heard a noise, and got up, and then I saw him go to Lady Teigne’s room, the night she was murdered. Ask him there who did it, and see what he’ll say.”
“Father, come away!” panted Claire, as she threw herself before him, as if to defend him against this terrible charge.
“What’s that?” cried the constable. “Oh, nonsense! Come along.”
“I tell you it’s true,” cried Isaac, with drunken fierceness; “it’s true. I saw him go to her room. Let him deny it if he can.”
Denville stood up, holding tightly by Claire’s arm, and looking wildly from one to the other as a strange murmur rose amongst the fast-augmenting crowd. Then, as if it were vain to fight against the charge, he made a lurch forward, recovered himself, and sank into a chair, Richard Linnell catching sight of his ghastly countenance before he covered it with his hands.
“It is a false charge, constable,” cried Linnell hastily. “Take that man away.”
“It’s all true,” snarled Isaac, with drunken triumph. “Look at him. Let him say he didn’t do it if he dare!”
As every eye was fixed upon him, the Master of the Ceremonies did not move; he made no bold defiance, but seemed half paralysed by the bolt that had fallen—one from which his child had failed to screen him, though she had thrown herself upon his breast.
Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.After the Storm.Matters ran their course rapidly during the following days. The black cloud that had so long been threatening had come down lower and nearer, and had at last poured forth its storm upon Denville’s devoted head. And now, as he sat thinking, all that had passed seemed misty and dreamlike, and yet he knew that it was true.There was the finish of that terrible night, when, forced by the direct charge of his servant, the constable had taken steps against him. He had been arrested; there had been magisterial examinations, and appeals to him to declare his innocency; he, the magistrates’ respected townsman, charged with this horrible crime by a drunken servant!But he had made no denial, only listened with a strange apathy, as if stunned, and ready to give up everything as hopeless. In fact, so willing did he seem to accept his position that, after examination and adjournment—one of which was really to give the broken-down, prostrate man an opportunity for making some defence—the magistrates had had no option but to commit the prisoner for trial.All Saltinville had been greatly concerned, and thus taken off the scent of the previous trouble at the Master of the Ceremonies’ house. The departure of Frank Burnett from the town, and the state of his wife’s health, became exceedingly secondary matters. Sir Harry Payne’s wound was of no more importance than Lady Drelincourt’s rheumatic fever, brought on by exposure on the Downs at her age. People forgot, too, to notice that Sir Matthew Bray was clear of his arrest, and to heed the rumour floating about at Miss Clode’s, that Lady Drelincourt had paid Sir Matthew’s debts, her affection for the big heavy dragoon having received a strong accession from the fact that her love was no longer divided, her overfed dog having died, evidently from plethora.Ordinary affairs were in abeyance, and everyone talked of Lady Teigne’s murder, and metaphorically dug the old belle up again to investigate the affair, and, so to speak, hold a general inquest without the coroner’s help.Lord Carboro’ took the matter down on the pier with him and sat at the end to watch Fisherman Dick shrimping; and as he watched him he did not think of the sturdy Spanish-looking fellow, but of Lady Teigne’s jewels, and as he thought he tried to undo this knot.“If Denville killed the old woman for her diamonds, how is it he remained so poor?”“Thinking, Lord Carboro’?” said a voice.The old beau looked up quickly and encountered the dark eyes of Major Rockley, who had also been intently watching Dick Miggles, using an opera-glass, so as to see him empty the shrimps into his creel.“Yes: thinking,” said Lord Carboro’ in a short, sharp way. “Like to know what I was thinking?”The Major shrugged his shoulders.“Of the sea, perhaps, or the vessels passing, or Lady Drelincourt’s illness.”“No, sir,” said Lord Carboro’ shortly. “I was thinking of Lady Teigne’s jewels.”Rockley raised his eyebrows, and looked at the old man curiously.“Of Lady Teigne’s jewels?”“Yes, sir; and it seems a strange thing to me that if Denville killed the old woman for her diamonds, he has not become rich.”“To be sure,” said Rockley; “it does seem strange.”“It’s all strange, sir, deuced strange,” said the old man. “Took me aback, for I never suspected Denville, and I don’t suspect him now.”They stood looking at each other for a few minutes, and then Rockley said quietly:“A great many people seem to believe him innocent. Do you think they will get him off?”“Yes, of course—of course, sir. It would be an abominable thing to bring such a charge home to the poor old fellow. Why, I suppose, sir, that even you would not wish that.”“I should be deeply grieved, my lord,” said Rockley. “Good morning.”“The scoundrel’s still thinking about Claire,” said the old beau, as he sat gazing after the handsome cavalry officer. “Well, it’s of no use to sit here. I’ll go up to Clode’s, and see if there is any news.”He trudged slowly along the pier and the Parade, stopping now and then to take a pinch of snuff.He was indulging in a very big pinch, standing by the edge of the path, when there was the trampling of hoofs, and Cora Dean’s pony-carriage was drawn up by his side.“Let me drive you there,” said Cora’s deep, rich voice.“Drive me! Where?” said the old man.“Where you ought to be going; to the prison to see poor Mr Denville, and get him out. I haven’t patience with you people leaving the poor old man there—you who professed to be his friends.”“Hah! Yes! No, I don’t think I’ll trouble you, my dear Miss Dean,” said the old man, recovering his balance, and speaking in his old sarcastic tone. “You are such a female Jehu.”“Such a what?” said Cora.“Female Jehu, my dear. You drive furiously, but you can’t control your steeds. I don’t want to be brought ashore in triumph. It’s all very well for you to come on to the beach like a goddess in your car, but to me it means rheumatism and pain. So, no thanks.”“And you are going to leave Mr Denville in trouble?”“Perhaps,” said his lordship drily. “We’re a heartless lot down here, and I’m one of the worst.”“And you think that poor old man killed Lady Teigne.”“No, I don’t, my dear Miss Dean; but even if he had done so I don’t think he ought to be punished. It was a meritorious action.”“Oh, Lord Carboro’!”“It was, my dear madam; and if some enterprising party would come and kill off Lady Drelincourt and your humble servant, and a few more of that stamp, it would be a blessing to society. What do you think?”“I think that a poor old man is lying in prison,” said Cora Dean, tightening her reins; “that his broken-hearted child is tending a sick sister, and that the world of society talks about it all as if it were stuff sent on purpose to supply them with news. Lord Carboro’, I used to wish I were well in society. I don’t wish it now. Good morning.”“One moment,” said the old man hastily. “You’ll shake hands?”He held out his, but Cora gave it a tap with her whip handle, and her ponies went off at a canter, leaving his lordship hat in hand.“And looking dooced ridiculous,” he said angrily. And then, “Confound the jade!” he muttered. “How dare she!”Then his wrinkled countenance changed, and a pleasant smile took the place of the angry look.“Confound her! What a dig to give me with her sharp tongue. Well, it’s true enough, and I like her for it. Does she like Claire, or does she hate her and pretend to feel all this? Who can say? The more you know of a woman, the greater mystery she seems. Poor old Denville! The place doesn’t seem natural without him and his snuff-box. I miss him horribly. Now I wonder whether they’d miss me if I were to go—as I shall go—soon.”He walked thoughtfully on.“Yes; they’d miss me, and talk about me as if I were a confounded old curiosity, and make jocular remarks about my donkey—by George, how my corns shoot, I wish he were here. But no one will care when I’m gone—not one; and no one will be the better for my having lived.”He walked on slowly, thinking of the last time he had seen Claire, and of the troubles that had fallen to her share, and then he muttered:“Yes! something must be done.”
Matters ran their course rapidly during the following days. The black cloud that had so long been threatening had come down lower and nearer, and had at last poured forth its storm upon Denville’s devoted head. And now, as he sat thinking, all that had passed seemed misty and dreamlike, and yet he knew that it was true.
There was the finish of that terrible night, when, forced by the direct charge of his servant, the constable had taken steps against him. He had been arrested; there had been magisterial examinations, and appeals to him to declare his innocency; he, the magistrates’ respected townsman, charged with this horrible crime by a drunken servant!
But he had made no denial, only listened with a strange apathy, as if stunned, and ready to give up everything as hopeless. In fact, so willing did he seem to accept his position that, after examination and adjournment—one of which was really to give the broken-down, prostrate man an opportunity for making some defence—the magistrates had had no option but to commit the prisoner for trial.
All Saltinville had been greatly concerned, and thus taken off the scent of the previous trouble at the Master of the Ceremonies’ house. The departure of Frank Burnett from the town, and the state of his wife’s health, became exceedingly secondary matters. Sir Harry Payne’s wound was of no more importance than Lady Drelincourt’s rheumatic fever, brought on by exposure on the Downs at her age. People forgot, too, to notice that Sir Matthew Bray was clear of his arrest, and to heed the rumour floating about at Miss Clode’s, that Lady Drelincourt had paid Sir Matthew’s debts, her affection for the big heavy dragoon having received a strong accession from the fact that her love was no longer divided, her overfed dog having died, evidently from plethora.
Ordinary affairs were in abeyance, and everyone talked of Lady Teigne’s murder, and metaphorically dug the old belle up again to investigate the affair, and, so to speak, hold a general inquest without the coroner’s help.
Lord Carboro’ took the matter down on the pier with him and sat at the end to watch Fisherman Dick shrimping; and as he watched him he did not think of the sturdy Spanish-looking fellow, but of Lady Teigne’s jewels, and as he thought he tried to undo this knot.
“If Denville killed the old woman for her diamonds, how is it he remained so poor?”
“Thinking, Lord Carboro’?” said a voice.
The old beau looked up quickly and encountered the dark eyes of Major Rockley, who had also been intently watching Dick Miggles, using an opera-glass, so as to see him empty the shrimps into his creel.
“Yes: thinking,” said Lord Carboro’ in a short, sharp way. “Like to know what I was thinking?”
The Major shrugged his shoulders.
“Of the sea, perhaps, or the vessels passing, or Lady Drelincourt’s illness.”
“No, sir,” said Lord Carboro’ shortly. “I was thinking of Lady Teigne’s jewels.”
Rockley raised his eyebrows, and looked at the old man curiously.
“Of Lady Teigne’s jewels?”
“Yes, sir; and it seems a strange thing to me that if Denville killed the old woman for her diamonds, he has not become rich.”
“To be sure,” said Rockley; “it does seem strange.”
“It’s all strange, sir, deuced strange,” said the old man. “Took me aback, for I never suspected Denville, and I don’t suspect him now.”
They stood looking at each other for a few minutes, and then Rockley said quietly:
“A great many people seem to believe him innocent. Do you think they will get him off?”
“Yes, of course—of course, sir. It would be an abominable thing to bring such a charge home to the poor old fellow. Why, I suppose, sir, that even you would not wish that.”
“I should be deeply grieved, my lord,” said Rockley. “Good morning.”
“The scoundrel’s still thinking about Claire,” said the old beau, as he sat gazing after the handsome cavalry officer. “Well, it’s of no use to sit here. I’ll go up to Clode’s, and see if there is any news.”
He trudged slowly along the pier and the Parade, stopping now and then to take a pinch of snuff.
He was indulging in a very big pinch, standing by the edge of the path, when there was the trampling of hoofs, and Cora Dean’s pony-carriage was drawn up by his side.
“Let me drive you there,” said Cora’s deep, rich voice.
“Drive me! Where?” said the old man.
“Where you ought to be going; to the prison to see poor Mr Denville, and get him out. I haven’t patience with you people leaving the poor old man there—you who professed to be his friends.”
“Hah! Yes! No, I don’t think I’ll trouble you, my dear Miss Dean,” said the old man, recovering his balance, and speaking in his old sarcastic tone. “You are such a female Jehu.”
“Such a what?” said Cora.
“Female Jehu, my dear. You drive furiously, but you can’t control your steeds. I don’t want to be brought ashore in triumph. It’s all very well for you to come on to the beach like a goddess in your car, but to me it means rheumatism and pain. So, no thanks.”
“And you are going to leave Mr Denville in trouble?”
“Perhaps,” said his lordship drily. “We’re a heartless lot down here, and I’m one of the worst.”
“And you think that poor old man killed Lady Teigne.”
“No, I don’t, my dear Miss Dean; but even if he had done so I don’t think he ought to be punished. It was a meritorious action.”
“Oh, Lord Carboro’!”
“It was, my dear madam; and if some enterprising party would come and kill off Lady Drelincourt and your humble servant, and a few more of that stamp, it would be a blessing to society. What do you think?”
“I think that a poor old man is lying in prison,” said Cora Dean, tightening her reins; “that his broken-hearted child is tending a sick sister, and that the world of society talks about it all as if it were stuff sent on purpose to supply them with news. Lord Carboro’, I used to wish I were well in society. I don’t wish it now. Good morning.”
“One moment,” said the old man hastily. “You’ll shake hands?”
He held out his, but Cora gave it a tap with her whip handle, and her ponies went off at a canter, leaving his lordship hat in hand.
“And looking dooced ridiculous,” he said angrily. And then, “Confound the jade!” he muttered. “How dare she!”
Then his wrinkled countenance changed, and a pleasant smile took the place of the angry look.
“Confound her! What a dig to give me with her sharp tongue. Well, it’s true enough, and I like her for it. Does she like Claire, or does she hate her and pretend to feel all this? Who can say? The more you know of a woman, the greater mystery she seems. Poor old Denville! The place doesn’t seem natural without him and his snuff-box. I miss him horribly. Now I wonder whether they’d miss me if I were to go—as I shall go—soon.”
He walked thoughtfully on.
“Yes; they’d miss me, and talk about me as if I were a confounded old curiosity, and make jocular remarks about my donkey—by George, how my corns shoot, I wish he were here. But no one will care when I’m gone—not one; and no one will be the better for my having lived.”
He walked on slowly, thinking of the last time he had seen Claire, and of the troubles that had fallen to her share, and then he muttered:
“Yes! something must be done.”
Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.From Parade to Prison.Sunken of eye, hollow of cheek, with the silvery stubble of many days’ growth upon his chin, glistening in the bar of light that came through the grated window, Stuart Denville, Master of the Ceremonies at Saltinville, high-priest to the votaries of fashion who worshipped at that seaside shrine, sat upon his truckle bed, his head down upon his hands, his elbows on his knees, gazing apparently at the dancing motes in the well-defined ray of sunshine that illumined his cell.It seemed as if he saw in those tiny motes that danced and rose and fell, the fashionable people who had so influenced his career; but hour after hour, as he sat there motionless, thinking of his arrest, his examination, the fashionable world was to him something that had never existed: he could see only the terminative.On first picturing that terrible end, when, with hideous exactness, the scaffold, the hangman, and the chaplain whispering words of hope and comfort to the thin, grey-haired, pinioned figure moving on in the slow procession had loomed up before him in all their terrible minutiae, he had shivered and shrunk away; but, after a few repetitions of this horrible waking dream, he had grown so accustomed to it that he found himself conjuring up the scene, and gazing at it mentally with a curious kind of interest that gradually became fascination.As to the final stage, it would not be so painful as many pangs, mental and bodily, which he had suffered; and, as to the future, that troubled him but little. He saw no terrors there, only a long restful sleep, freed from the cares and sufferings that had for long past fallen to his lot.There were no shudders now, but only a sad wistful smile and a sigh almost of content, the rest of the future seemed so welcome.“Yes,” he said at last, as he pressed his trembling white hands to his lips, and left his seat to pace the cell, falling for the moment involuntarily into his old mincing pace, but stopping short and gazing up at the little patch of blue sky he could see; “yes—rest—sleep—Oh, God, I am so weary. Let it end!”He stood with his hands clasped before him, and now a cloud came over his countenance, almost the only cloud that troubled him now. Claire; if she only could know—if he could tell her all—his temptations—his struggles—the long fight he had passed through.Then he thought over his past—the mistakes of his life. How much happier he might have been if he had chosen differently. How piteous had been all this sham and pretence, what a weary existence it had been—what insults he had suffered for the sake of keeping up his miserable position, and obtaining a few guineas.May!The thought of his child—his favoured one, with her pretty innocent rosebud of a face and its appealing, trusting eyes. How he had worshipped that girl! How she had been his idol. How he had believed in her and sacrificed everything for her sake; and now—he lay in prison, one whom the world called murderer; and she, his idol, to whom he had sacrificed so long, for aught he knew, passing away, and everyone turned from him and his family as if they were lepers.Well, he was a social leper. He had made no defence. This man had charged him with the crime, and he had not denied it. What wonder that people shrank from him as if he were unclean, and kept away. It was his fate. The world turned from him—son—daughter. They feared the contamination of the gaol.No suffering that the executioner even could inflict would equal the agony of mind through which he had passed.He clasped his hands more tightly and gazed fixedly before him, his lips moving at last, as he said in a low husky whisper:“All forsake me now. The Master of the Ceremonies must prepare for the great ceremony of the law. Oh, that it were over, and the rest were come!”He was at the lowest ebb of his misery amid his meditations and thoughts of home and the social wreck that was there with her thin baby face, when there was the distant sound of bolts being shot. Then there were steps and the rustle of a dress, the rattle of a great key in the door. Next the bolts of this were shot at top and bottom with a noisy jar; the door was thrust open, and the gaoler ushered in a veiled figure in black. Then the door was closed, the locks and bolts rattled; the heavy steps of the gaoler sounded upon the stone floor, and then the farther door opened and closed.There was a moment’s silence before, with a quick rustling sound, veil and cloak were thrown aside upon the bed, and Claire’s soft arms clasped the wasted, trembling form, drawing the grey careworn face down upon her breast as she sobbed out:“Father—father, has it come to this?” Denville remained silent for a few moments, and then with an exceeding bitter cry:“My child! my child!” he wailed. “I said you had forsaken me in my sore need.”“Forsaken you, dear? Oh, no, no, no!” whispered Claire, fondling him as if he had been a child, and gently drawing him to the bed, upon which she sank, while he fell upon his knees before her, utterly weak and helpless now, as he yielded to the caresses she lavished upon him, and she whispered words that seemed full of comfort—forerunners of the rest he had prayed for so short a tune before.“Forsaken you?” she whispered. “Oh, my dear, dear father! How could you think it of your child!”“The world says I am a murderer, and I am in prison.”“Hush!” she cried, laying her hand upon his lips. “It was only this morning I could get permission to see you.”She laid her soft white hand upon his lips as she spoke, and then, seeming to make an effort and check her own emotion, she drew him closer to her.“Ah!” he sighed as he clung to her; “and I always acted so unfairly to you, my child. But tell me—May?”“She does not know,” said Claire earnestly. “In her weak state it might kill her.”“Perhaps better it did,” said Denville solemnly. “Poor, weak, erring girl!”“Hush! Don’t!” cried Claire. “Father, there is hope—there is forgiveness for us all if we show that we are indeed repentant. May is not like others. Always weak and wilful and easily turned aside from what was right. No: we must not despond. I must take you both far, far away, dear. I have come for that now. You must advise with me and help me,” she said quickly. “Tell me what I am to do—what I am to set about. Come, father, quick!”“What you are to do?” he said sadly. “Trust in heaven, my child: we cannot shape our own paths in life, and when we do try the end is wreck.”“Father,” she cried impetuously, “do you think I was speaking of myself? I want you to tell me whom to ask for help.”“Help, my child?”“Yes: for money. May I ask the Barclays? They have always been so kind. Surely they will help us now.”“Help us—money?” he said vacantly.“Yes, for your defence. We must have counsel, father. You shall be saved—saved that we may go far from here. Father, I cannot bear it. You must be saved.”He was startled by the wildness of her manner and the fierce energy she threw into her words.“You do not speak,” she cried imperiously, and she laid her hands upon his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. “You must not, you shall not give up and let yourself drift to destruction. Why do you not tell me? I am only a woman. Father, what shall I do?”“What shall you do?” he said mournfully.“Yes, yes. Forgive me for what I say—I, your child, who love you most dearly now that you are in this terrible trouble. Father, we must go away together to some distant place where, in a life of contrition and prayer, we may appeal daily for the forgiveness that is given to those who seek.”He gazed in her eyes with his lip quivering, and a terrible look of despair in his face.“Forgiveness for those who seek?”“Yes, from a merciful God. Oh, father, if I wring your heart in what I say it is because I love you as your child.”“Ah!”A piteous sigh escaped his lips, and his head sank down upon his breast.“You are silent,” she cried reproachfully, “silent, when the time is so short. I shall be dragged from your side directly, and you have not advised me what to do. I must have money. I must get counsel for you and advice.”He drew a long breath and raised his head, his lips parting but uttering no sound.“Yes!” she cried, “yes! Speak, father. Shall I go to Mr Barclay?”“No.”“Then tell me what I shall do, dear. Pray rouse yourself from this despair. Speak—tell me. What shall I do first?”“Nothing.”“Nothing? Oh, father!”“They say I committed this murder—that I crushed out the life of that miserable old woman. So be it.”“Father!”“I say—so be it,” he repeated firmly. “The law says one life must answer for another. Well—I am ready.”Claire wrung her hands, as he rose from where he had knelt, and gazed at him in pitying wonder and awe.“God is merciful,” said the old man mournfully. “He readeth all our hearts. Claire, my child, I am not afraid to die. I am sick for the rest that is to come.”“But, father!” wailed Claire.“My child, I know. I have thought of all. I have seen everything in the silence and darkness of this cell; but it is only a passing away from this weary life to one that is full of rest and peace. There is no injustice there.”“Father, you madden me,” whispered Claire hoarsely. “You must not give up like this. Tell me what to do.”“Think me innocent, my child,” he said softly—“innocent of that crime. And now let us talk of yourself and your brother Morton.”She noticed that he did not mention May’s name.“It is very bitter,” he said. “I had hoped to provide for my child, but I was not able. But there, you are stronger of mind than I, and you will be protected. That woman, Mrs Barclay, loves you, my child. But Morton, he is a mere boy, and weak—weak and vain, like his father, my child—as I have been. Watch over him, Claire. Advise him when he is falling away.”“Oh, yes, yes, yes, father; but you—”“I shall be at rest, my child,” he said sadly. “Do not think of me. Then there is—”He paused for a few moments with his lips quivering till he saw her inquiring eyes, and with a heavy sigh he went on.”—There is May.”He paused again, to go on almost lightly, but she read the agony in his eyes, and clung to his arm and held it to her breast.“This is like my will,” he said, “the only one I shall make. There is May. I have not been fair, my dear. I have given her all my love—to your neglect. I have made her my idol, and—and—like her brother Morton, she is very weak. Such a pretty child, beautiful as an angel. Claire dearest, I loved her so well, and it has been my punishment for my injustice to you.”“Dearest father!”“Yes, I was unjust to you, but that is past. I pray your forgiveness, my child, as I say to you, I leave you the legacy of that boy and girl—that child-wife. Claire, you must forgive her, as I pray Him to forgive me. Ignore the past, Claire, my child, and in every way you can be ready to step between her and the evil that she goes too near. You will do this?”“Oh, father, yes. But you? What shall I do now?”“Claire, only a few short weeks, and I shall be in my grave. Don’t start, my child. To you, in your sweet spring of life, it is the black pit of horror. To me, in the bitter winter of my life, there is no horror there: it is but the calm, silent resting-place where tired nature sleeps and life’s troubles end. There, there, my little one, to whose sweet virtues and truth I have been blind, I am almost content with my fate for the reason that you have awakened me from a trance into which I had fallen. Claire, my child, can you forgive this weak, vain, old man?”She leaned forward and kissed his white forehead, and, as he drew her closer to him, she nestled in his breast, and clung to him, sobbing convulsively.“Hah!” he sighed, “I did not know I could be so happy again. Think of me as an innocent—an injured man, my child, as of one whose lips are sealed. Pray for me as I shall pray for you.”“But, father, I may see Mr Barclay?”He was silent for a few minutes.“Yes,” he said at last.Claire uttered a sigh of relief.“You shall ask him to come here. I will appeal to him to watch over you. He is rough, Claire, and his wife is vulgar—coarse; but, God help me! I wish I had had such a true and sterling heart. There, hush! I have made my will,” he said, smiling. “It is done; I have but to seal it with my death, and I see its approach without a shade of fear.”“But, father! my dearest father!”“My own,” he said tenderly, as he kissed her and smiled down upon her. “Ah! you do not shrink from me now. Sweet, true woman. Oh, that I could have been so blind! You were going to ask me something.”“Yes, dearest,” she whispered; “I want you to forgive—”“May? Yes: she is forgiven. I forgive her, poor, weak child. Tell her that I had but tender words for her even now. I would send her messages, but of what avail would they be, even as the words of a dying man? No; she has not the stability. It is more her failing than her sin. You were asking me to forgive her.”“I knew you forgave her, dearest, but I want you to forgive poor Fred.”He started from her as if he had been stung.“I saw him last night, and he begs and prays of you to forgive him and let him come. Father, he loves you in spite of all this estrangement.”“Silence!” cried the old man furiously. “Have I not said that I would not hear his name?”“Father dearest, what have I done?” cried Claire, as she gazed in terror at the convulsed features, at the claw-like hands, extended, clutching, and opening and shutting as the old man gasped for air.“Father! Oh, help!”A terrible purple colour suffused his face; his knotted veins started upon his temples, and it seemed as if he were about to fall in a fit; but the paroxysm began to pass away. He caught at Claire’s hand, and held by it while with his other he signed to her to be silent, for just then the clanking of bolts and locks was heard, and the door was thrown open to admit Richard Linnell and Mr Barclay.
Sunken of eye, hollow of cheek, with the silvery stubble of many days’ growth upon his chin, glistening in the bar of light that came through the grated window, Stuart Denville, Master of the Ceremonies at Saltinville, high-priest to the votaries of fashion who worshipped at that seaside shrine, sat upon his truckle bed, his head down upon his hands, his elbows on his knees, gazing apparently at the dancing motes in the well-defined ray of sunshine that illumined his cell.
It seemed as if he saw in those tiny motes that danced and rose and fell, the fashionable people who had so influenced his career; but hour after hour, as he sat there motionless, thinking of his arrest, his examination, the fashionable world was to him something that had never existed: he could see only the terminative.
On first picturing that terrible end, when, with hideous exactness, the scaffold, the hangman, and the chaplain whispering words of hope and comfort to the thin, grey-haired, pinioned figure moving on in the slow procession had loomed up before him in all their terrible minutiae, he had shivered and shrunk away; but, after a few repetitions of this horrible waking dream, he had grown so accustomed to it that he found himself conjuring up the scene, and gazing at it mentally with a curious kind of interest that gradually became fascination.
As to the final stage, it would not be so painful as many pangs, mental and bodily, which he had suffered; and, as to the future, that troubled him but little. He saw no terrors there, only a long restful sleep, freed from the cares and sufferings that had for long past fallen to his lot.
There were no shudders now, but only a sad wistful smile and a sigh almost of content, the rest of the future seemed so welcome.
“Yes,” he said at last, as he pressed his trembling white hands to his lips, and left his seat to pace the cell, falling for the moment involuntarily into his old mincing pace, but stopping short and gazing up at the little patch of blue sky he could see; “yes—rest—sleep—Oh, God, I am so weary. Let it end!”
He stood with his hands clasped before him, and now a cloud came over his countenance, almost the only cloud that troubled him now. Claire; if she only could know—if he could tell her all—his temptations—his struggles—the long fight he had passed through.
Then he thought over his past—the mistakes of his life. How much happier he might have been if he had chosen differently. How piteous had been all this sham and pretence, what a weary existence it had been—what insults he had suffered for the sake of keeping up his miserable position, and obtaining a few guineas.
May!
The thought of his child—his favoured one, with her pretty innocent rosebud of a face and its appealing, trusting eyes. How he had worshipped that girl! How she had been his idol. How he had believed in her and sacrificed everything for her sake; and now—he lay in prison, one whom the world called murderer; and she, his idol, to whom he had sacrificed so long, for aught he knew, passing away, and everyone turned from him and his family as if they were lepers.
Well, he was a social leper. He had made no defence. This man had charged him with the crime, and he had not denied it. What wonder that people shrank from him as if he were unclean, and kept away. It was his fate. The world turned from him—son—daughter. They feared the contamination of the gaol.
No suffering that the executioner even could inflict would equal the agony of mind through which he had passed.
He clasped his hands more tightly and gazed fixedly before him, his lips moving at last, as he said in a low husky whisper:
“All forsake me now. The Master of the Ceremonies must prepare for the great ceremony of the law. Oh, that it were over, and the rest were come!”
He was at the lowest ebb of his misery amid his meditations and thoughts of home and the social wreck that was there with her thin baby face, when there was the distant sound of bolts being shot. Then there were steps and the rustle of a dress, the rattle of a great key in the door. Next the bolts of this were shot at top and bottom with a noisy jar; the door was thrust open, and the gaoler ushered in a veiled figure in black. Then the door was closed, the locks and bolts rattled; the heavy steps of the gaoler sounded upon the stone floor, and then the farther door opened and closed.
There was a moment’s silence before, with a quick rustling sound, veil and cloak were thrown aside upon the bed, and Claire’s soft arms clasped the wasted, trembling form, drawing the grey careworn face down upon her breast as she sobbed out:
“Father—father, has it come to this?” Denville remained silent for a few moments, and then with an exceeding bitter cry:
“My child! my child!” he wailed. “I said you had forsaken me in my sore need.”
“Forsaken you, dear? Oh, no, no, no!” whispered Claire, fondling him as if he had been a child, and gently drawing him to the bed, upon which she sank, while he fell upon his knees before her, utterly weak and helpless now, as he yielded to the caresses she lavished upon him, and she whispered words that seemed full of comfort—forerunners of the rest he had prayed for so short a tune before.
“Forsaken you?” she whispered. “Oh, my dear, dear father! How could you think it of your child!”
“The world says I am a murderer, and I am in prison.”
“Hush!” she cried, laying her hand upon his lips. “It was only this morning I could get permission to see you.”
She laid her soft white hand upon his lips as she spoke, and then, seeming to make an effort and check her own emotion, she drew him closer to her.
“Ah!” he sighed as he clung to her; “and I always acted so unfairly to you, my child. But tell me—May?”
“She does not know,” said Claire earnestly. “In her weak state it might kill her.”
“Perhaps better it did,” said Denville solemnly. “Poor, weak, erring girl!”
“Hush! Don’t!” cried Claire. “Father, there is hope—there is forgiveness for us all if we show that we are indeed repentant. May is not like others. Always weak and wilful and easily turned aside from what was right. No: we must not despond. I must take you both far, far away, dear. I have come for that now. You must advise with me and help me,” she said quickly. “Tell me what I am to do—what I am to set about. Come, father, quick!”
“What you are to do?” he said sadly. “Trust in heaven, my child: we cannot shape our own paths in life, and when we do try the end is wreck.”
“Father,” she cried impetuously, “do you think I was speaking of myself? I want you to tell me whom to ask for help.”
“Help, my child?”
“Yes: for money. May I ask the Barclays? They have always been so kind. Surely they will help us now.”
“Help us—money?” he said vacantly.
“Yes, for your defence. We must have counsel, father. You shall be saved—saved that we may go far from here. Father, I cannot bear it. You must be saved.”
He was startled by the wildness of her manner and the fierce energy she threw into her words.
“You do not speak,” she cried imperiously, and she laid her hands upon his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. “You must not, you shall not give up and let yourself drift to destruction. Why do you not tell me? I am only a woman. Father, what shall I do?”
“What shall you do?” he said mournfully.
“Yes, yes. Forgive me for what I say—I, your child, who love you most dearly now that you are in this terrible trouble. Father, we must go away together to some distant place where, in a life of contrition and prayer, we may appeal daily for the forgiveness that is given to those who seek.”
He gazed in her eyes with his lip quivering, and a terrible look of despair in his face.
“Forgiveness for those who seek?”
“Yes, from a merciful God. Oh, father, if I wring your heart in what I say it is because I love you as your child.”
“Ah!”
A piteous sigh escaped his lips, and his head sank down upon his breast.
“You are silent,” she cried reproachfully, “silent, when the time is so short. I shall be dragged from your side directly, and you have not advised me what to do. I must have money. I must get counsel for you and advice.”
He drew a long breath and raised his head, his lips parting but uttering no sound.
“Yes!” she cried, “yes! Speak, father. Shall I go to Mr Barclay?”
“No.”
“Then tell me what I shall do, dear. Pray rouse yourself from this despair. Speak—tell me. What shall I do first?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Oh, father!”
“They say I committed this murder—that I crushed out the life of that miserable old woman. So be it.”
“Father!”
“I say—so be it,” he repeated firmly. “The law says one life must answer for another. Well—I am ready.”
Claire wrung her hands, as he rose from where he had knelt, and gazed at him in pitying wonder and awe.
“God is merciful,” said the old man mournfully. “He readeth all our hearts. Claire, my child, I am not afraid to die. I am sick for the rest that is to come.”
“But, father!” wailed Claire.
“My child, I know. I have thought of all. I have seen everything in the silence and darkness of this cell; but it is only a passing away from this weary life to one that is full of rest and peace. There is no injustice there.”
“Father, you madden me,” whispered Claire hoarsely. “You must not give up like this. Tell me what to do.”
“Think me innocent, my child,” he said softly—“innocent of that crime. And now let us talk of yourself and your brother Morton.”
She noticed that he did not mention May’s name.
“It is very bitter,” he said. “I had hoped to provide for my child, but I was not able. But there, you are stronger of mind than I, and you will be protected. That woman, Mrs Barclay, loves you, my child. But Morton, he is a mere boy, and weak—weak and vain, like his father, my child—as I have been. Watch over him, Claire. Advise him when he is falling away.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, father; but you—”
“I shall be at rest, my child,” he said sadly. “Do not think of me. Then there is—”
He paused for a few moments with his lips quivering till he saw her inquiring eyes, and with a heavy sigh he went on.
”—There is May.”
He paused again, to go on almost lightly, but she read the agony in his eyes, and clung to his arm and held it to her breast.
“This is like my will,” he said, “the only one I shall make. There is May. I have not been fair, my dear. I have given her all my love—to your neglect. I have made her my idol, and—and—like her brother Morton, she is very weak. Such a pretty child, beautiful as an angel. Claire dearest, I loved her so well, and it has been my punishment for my injustice to you.”
“Dearest father!”
“Yes, I was unjust to you, but that is past. I pray your forgiveness, my child, as I say to you, I leave you the legacy of that boy and girl—that child-wife. Claire, you must forgive her, as I pray Him to forgive me. Ignore the past, Claire, my child, and in every way you can be ready to step between her and the evil that she goes too near. You will do this?”
“Oh, father, yes. But you? What shall I do now?”
“Claire, only a few short weeks, and I shall be in my grave. Don’t start, my child. To you, in your sweet spring of life, it is the black pit of horror. To me, in the bitter winter of my life, there is no horror there: it is but the calm, silent resting-place where tired nature sleeps and life’s troubles end. There, there, my little one, to whose sweet virtues and truth I have been blind, I am almost content with my fate for the reason that you have awakened me from a trance into which I had fallen. Claire, my child, can you forgive this weak, vain, old man?”
She leaned forward and kissed his white forehead, and, as he drew her closer to him, she nestled in his breast, and clung to him, sobbing convulsively.
“Hah!” he sighed, “I did not know I could be so happy again. Think of me as an innocent—an injured man, my child, as of one whose lips are sealed. Pray for me as I shall pray for you.”
“But, father, I may see Mr Barclay?”
He was silent for a few minutes.
“Yes,” he said at last.
Claire uttered a sigh of relief.
“You shall ask him to come here. I will appeal to him to watch over you. He is rough, Claire, and his wife is vulgar—coarse; but, God help me! I wish I had had such a true and sterling heart. There, hush! I have made my will,” he said, smiling. “It is done; I have but to seal it with my death, and I see its approach without a shade of fear.”
“But, father! my dearest father!”
“My own,” he said tenderly, as he kissed her and smiled down upon her. “Ah! you do not shrink from me now. Sweet, true woman. Oh, that I could have been so blind! You were going to ask me something.”
“Yes, dearest,” she whispered; “I want you to forgive—”
“May? Yes: she is forgiven. I forgive her, poor, weak child. Tell her that I had but tender words for her even now. I would send her messages, but of what avail would they be, even as the words of a dying man? No; she has not the stability. It is more her failing than her sin. You were asking me to forgive her.”
“I knew you forgave her, dearest, but I want you to forgive poor Fred.”
He started from her as if he had been stung.
“I saw him last night, and he begs and prays of you to forgive him and let him come. Father, he loves you in spite of all this estrangement.”
“Silence!” cried the old man furiously. “Have I not said that I would not hear his name?”
“Father dearest, what have I done?” cried Claire, as she gazed in terror at the convulsed features, at the claw-like hands, extended, clutching, and opening and shutting as the old man gasped for air.
“Father! Oh, help!”
A terrible purple colour suffused his face; his knotted veins started upon his temples, and it seemed as if he were about to fall in a fit; but the paroxysm began to pass away. He caught at Claire’s hand, and held by it while with his other he signed to her to be silent, for just then the clanking of bolts and locks was heard, and the door was thrown open to admit Richard Linnell and Mr Barclay.
Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.Under Barclay’s Shell.Denville grew composed at once, and taking Claire’s hand, stood up facing his visitors with a slight trace of the old manner returning, as he bowed and pointed to the stool and bed.“Poor accommodation for visitors, gentlemen,” he said; “but it is the best I have to offer. Mr Barclay, Mr Linnell, will you be seated?”“Couldn’t get to you before, Denville,” said the money-lender, shaking hands warmly. “Terrible business this. Miss Claire, my dear, the wife has gone to your house again. Taken some things with her; said she should stay.”“Mr Denville, I am truly grieved,” said Linnell, offering his hand, after giving Claire a grave, sad look. “Mr Barclay and I have come to see of what service we can be to you.”“Yes, yes, of course, Denville,” cried Barclay briskly. “Bad business, this, but—eh, Mr Linnell?”“Miss Denville,” said the latter, turning to Claire, “as we are about to discuss business matters about counsel and your father’s defence, would you like to leave us?”“No,” said Denville quickly, as he drew Claire’s hand through his arm, and shook his head. “You will pardon me, gentlemen, but in the little space of time I am allowed to see visitors, I should like to keep my child by my side. Gentlemen—Mr Barclay—Mr Linnell—half an hour ago I said that I had no friends. I was wrong—I thank you for coming. God bless you!”“Why, of course you had friends, Denville,” cried Barclay. “You don’t suppose because a man’s hard and fast over money matters, that he has no bowels of compassion, do you? But now, business. About counsel for your defence?”“I had already discussed the matter with my daughter, gentlemen. Counsel! It is useless. I need none.”“Need none, Mr Denville?” cried Linnell quickly. “Pray think of what you are saying. You must have legal help.”Claire darted a grateful look at Linnell, and then drew back with pain depicted in her countenance, mingled with pride and mortification as she saw the coldness in his manner towards her.“I must repeat what I said, Mr Linnell,” said Denville in a low, pained voice. “I want no counsel. I will have none, but I thank you all the same, Mr Barclay. Claire, my child, you will pardon me. I must speak with Mr Barclay.”Claire shrank into one corner of the cell, her brow drawn with the pain inflicted upon her as her father kept reverting to his old displays of deportment and mincing ways—ways that had become so habitual that even now, incongruous as they were, he could not quite throw them off.“You need not go, Mr Linnell,” he continued, “that is if you will bear with the pain of listening to a dying man’s request. We have never been friends, sir, but I am your debtor now for your kindly act. My dear Barclay, the little drama of my poor life is nearly over; the curtain is about to fall. You have known me long—my little ambitious hopes and disappointments. I cannot say to my child there is a home for her with her sister; will you help her when—you know what I would say?”“Denville, old fellow, I don’t know what to say to this,” said Barclay quickly. “It’s a mystery to me. Damn it, sir, I can’t believe you killed that old woman even now. I want to get you counsel who will clear you, sir, and throw the deed on to whoever did it—some one unknown.”“Hush!—hush! Pray hush!” cried Denville, shuddering. “We are wasting time. Barclay—my daughter.”“My dear old fellow,” said the money-lender quickly, “I told you that my wife had gone on to your place to see Miss Claire there. Don’t you be afraid for her. She has a friend in Mrs B who will never fail her. Friend? She will prove a mother. Don’t you trouble about Miss Claire. There’s only one obstacle to her having a happy home, and that’s me, and—”He stopped short, for his voice had turned husky, and gripping Denville’s hand very tightly, he held it for a few minutes.“God bless her sweet face!” he whispered; “we never believed one of the miserable scandals about her, Denville. But now about yourself.”Denville turned away his face, took a couple of steps to the side, and stood with his back to them for a few minutes. Then, turning, with his face wearing a curious look of calm, he laid his hand upon Barclay’s arm.“You have taken away the bitterness of death, Barclay,” he said in a low voice. “Heaven help me for the weakest of men. I never knew who were my friends.”“Then you will let us get counsel for you?”“No, no! I forbid it,” said Denville sternly. “Good-bye, Mr Linnell. I thank you. Barclay, God bless you!”His voice trembled as he pressed the money-lender’s hand, for the gaoler had opened the door, and was waiting to usher them out.“Claire, my child,” he whispered, taking her in his arms, “you will come again. Good-bye now. Good-bye.”She clung to him wildly for a few moments, and then, with a look of desolation in her eyes, slowly followed the gaoler and the other visitors along the echoing stone passages to the gate, where Linnell laid his hand upon her arm.Before he could speak there was a rustle of a silk dress, a hurried panting as some one brushed by him, and a voluble voice exclaimed:“They wouldn’t let me in, my dear, and I’ve been waiting for you to come. There, there, there, you and May are coming home along with me, and—”Her voice died away as Linnell stood there, feeling desolate and cold. There was an intense bitterness in his heart, as he told himself that his love for Claire was of a very poor type, that he had been ready to believe ill of her, and let that love become chilled. What had he done now that she was plunged into the very depths of despair? Almost held aloof when he would have given all he had—life itself—to save her from her pain.“I am mad, jealous, weak, and contemptible,” he cried to himself at last. “I will go to her and tell her I love her more than ever. It is not too late.”He had taken a step to follow, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and Barclay said huskily:“There’s a woman for you, Mr Linnell, sir. I often think she ought to have had a better husband. There, the best thing is to let them alone together. You wouldn’t think it, Mr Linnell, with me, such a hard nut as I am, but this business has quit upset me. Good-day, sir, good-day.”“Good-day, Mr Barclay,” said Linnell dreamily; and they were parting, when Barclay said in a low quick whisper:“You may think of some way of helping the old fellow, Mr Linnell. If you do there’s any amount of money ready for the lawyers, if you give me a hint. For he’s an innocent man, sir. Kill that old woman? Pho! Pooh! Stuff! He couldn’t kill a cat!”
Denville grew composed at once, and taking Claire’s hand, stood up facing his visitors with a slight trace of the old manner returning, as he bowed and pointed to the stool and bed.
“Poor accommodation for visitors, gentlemen,” he said; “but it is the best I have to offer. Mr Barclay, Mr Linnell, will you be seated?”
“Couldn’t get to you before, Denville,” said the money-lender, shaking hands warmly. “Terrible business this. Miss Claire, my dear, the wife has gone to your house again. Taken some things with her; said she should stay.”
“Mr Denville, I am truly grieved,” said Linnell, offering his hand, after giving Claire a grave, sad look. “Mr Barclay and I have come to see of what service we can be to you.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Denville,” cried Barclay briskly. “Bad business, this, but—eh, Mr Linnell?”
“Miss Denville,” said the latter, turning to Claire, “as we are about to discuss business matters about counsel and your father’s defence, would you like to leave us?”
“No,” said Denville quickly, as he drew Claire’s hand through his arm, and shook his head. “You will pardon me, gentlemen, but in the little space of time I am allowed to see visitors, I should like to keep my child by my side. Gentlemen—Mr Barclay—Mr Linnell—half an hour ago I said that I had no friends. I was wrong—I thank you for coming. God bless you!”
“Why, of course you had friends, Denville,” cried Barclay. “You don’t suppose because a man’s hard and fast over money matters, that he has no bowels of compassion, do you? But now, business. About counsel for your defence?”
“I had already discussed the matter with my daughter, gentlemen. Counsel! It is useless. I need none.”
“Need none, Mr Denville?” cried Linnell quickly. “Pray think of what you are saying. You must have legal help.”
Claire darted a grateful look at Linnell, and then drew back with pain depicted in her countenance, mingled with pride and mortification as she saw the coldness in his manner towards her.
“I must repeat what I said, Mr Linnell,” said Denville in a low, pained voice. “I want no counsel. I will have none, but I thank you all the same, Mr Barclay. Claire, my child, you will pardon me. I must speak with Mr Barclay.”
Claire shrank into one corner of the cell, her brow drawn with the pain inflicted upon her as her father kept reverting to his old displays of deportment and mincing ways—ways that had become so habitual that even now, incongruous as they were, he could not quite throw them off.
“You need not go, Mr Linnell,” he continued, “that is if you will bear with the pain of listening to a dying man’s request. We have never been friends, sir, but I am your debtor now for your kindly act. My dear Barclay, the little drama of my poor life is nearly over; the curtain is about to fall. You have known me long—my little ambitious hopes and disappointments. I cannot say to my child there is a home for her with her sister; will you help her when—you know what I would say?”
“Denville, old fellow, I don’t know what to say to this,” said Barclay quickly. “It’s a mystery to me. Damn it, sir, I can’t believe you killed that old woman even now. I want to get you counsel who will clear you, sir, and throw the deed on to whoever did it—some one unknown.”
“Hush!—hush! Pray hush!” cried Denville, shuddering. “We are wasting time. Barclay—my daughter.”
“My dear old fellow,” said the money-lender quickly, “I told you that my wife had gone on to your place to see Miss Claire there. Don’t you be afraid for her. She has a friend in Mrs B who will never fail her. Friend? She will prove a mother. Don’t you trouble about Miss Claire. There’s only one obstacle to her having a happy home, and that’s me, and—”
He stopped short, for his voice had turned husky, and gripping Denville’s hand very tightly, he held it for a few minutes.
“God bless her sweet face!” he whispered; “we never believed one of the miserable scandals about her, Denville. But now about yourself.”
Denville turned away his face, took a couple of steps to the side, and stood with his back to them for a few minutes. Then, turning, with his face wearing a curious look of calm, he laid his hand upon Barclay’s arm.
“You have taken away the bitterness of death, Barclay,” he said in a low voice. “Heaven help me for the weakest of men. I never knew who were my friends.”
“Then you will let us get counsel for you?”
“No, no! I forbid it,” said Denville sternly. “Good-bye, Mr Linnell. I thank you. Barclay, God bless you!”
His voice trembled as he pressed the money-lender’s hand, for the gaoler had opened the door, and was waiting to usher them out.
“Claire, my child,” he whispered, taking her in his arms, “you will come again. Good-bye now. Good-bye.”
She clung to him wildly for a few moments, and then, with a look of desolation in her eyes, slowly followed the gaoler and the other visitors along the echoing stone passages to the gate, where Linnell laid his hand upon her arm.
Before he could speak there was a rustle of a silk dress, a hurried panting as some one brushed by him, and a voluble voice exclaimed:
“They wouldn’t let me in, my dear, and I’ve been waiting for you to come. There, there, there, you and May are coming home along with me, and—”
Her voice died away as Linnell stood there, feeling desolate and cold. There was an intense bitterness in his heart, as he told himself that his love for Claire was of a very poor type, that he had been ready to believe ill of her, and let that love become chilled. What had he done now that she was plunged into the very depths of despair? Almost held aloof when he would have given all he had—life itself—to save her from her pain.
“I am mad, jealous, weak, and contemptible,” he cried to himself at last. “I will go to her and tell her I love her more than ever. It is not too late.”
He had taken a step to follow, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and Barclay said huskily:
“There’s a woman for you, Mr Linnell, sir. I often think she ought to have had a better husband. There, the best thing is to let them alone together. You wouldn’t think it, Mr Linnell, with me, such a hard nut as I am, but this business has quit upset me. Good-day, sir, good-day.”
“Good-day, Mr Barclay,” said Linnell dreamily; and they were parting, when Barclay said in a low quick whisper:
“You may think of some way of helping the old fellow, Mr Linnell. If you do there’s any amount of money ready for the lawyers, if you give me a hint. For he’s an innocent man, sir. Kill that old woman? Pho! Pooh! Stuff! He couldn’t kill a cat!”