Volume Three—Chapter One.

Volume Three—Chapter One.Miss Clode is Mysterious.Richard Linnell had left his quiet, patient-looking father busily copying a sheet of music, and joined Colonel Mellersh, who was waiting at the door ready for a stroll.Cora Dean’s ponies were in the road, and that lady was just about to start for a drive.Somehow, her door opened, and she came rustling down, closing her ears to a petulant call from her mother, and—perhaps it was an accident—so timed her descent that it would be impossible for the gentlemen to avoid offering to hand her to the carriage.They both raised their hats as they stood upon the step, and she smiled and looked at Richard Linnell, but he did not stir.“Come, Dick,” said Mellersh, with a half-sneer; “have you forgotten your manners?”Linnell started, offered his arm, which was taken, and he led Cora down to the little carriage, the ponies beginning to stamp as the groom held their bits, while the bright, smiling look of their mistress passed away.“The ponies look rather fresh,” said Richard Linnell, trying to be agreeable. “I should have their bearing reins tightened a little.”“Why?” said Cora sharply, and with a glance full of resentment: and, at the same moment, she noted that Mellersh was leaning against the door-post, looking on.“Why?” repeated Linnell, smiling in her face—but it was not the smile she wished to see—“for fear of another accident, of course.”“What would you care?” she said in a low whisper. “I wish there would be another accident. Why didn’t you let me drown? I wish I were dead.”She gave her ponies a sharp lash, the groom leaped aside, caught the back of the carriage, and swung himself up into his seat, and away they dashed at a gallop, while Linnell stood gazing after them, till Mellersh laid a hand upon his shoulder.“Dick, Dick,” he said banteringly, “what a fierce wooer you are! You have been saying something to offend the fair Cora. Come along.”“Does it give you pleasure to banter me like this?”“Banter, man? I was in earnest.”They walked along the parade in silence, and had not gone far before they met the Master of the Ceremonies, who raised his hat stiffly, in response to their salutes, and passed on.“Oh, man, man, why don’t you take the good the gods provide you, instead of sighing after what you cannot have.”“Mellersh,” said Richard, as if he had not heard him, “if I make up my mind to leave Saltinville, will you pay a good deal of attention to the old man?”“Leave—Saltinville?”“Yes; I am sick of the place. I must go right away.”“Stop a moment! Hold your tongue! There is that scoundrel, Rockley, with his gang.”In effect, a group of officers came along in the opposite direction, and, but for the disposition shown them to avoid a quarrel, their offensive monopolisation of the whole of the path would have resulted in an altercation.“I shall have to cripple that fellow,” said Mellersh, as they walked on, after turning out into the road in passing the group. “I wonder young Denville does not shoot him for his goings on with his sister.”“Mellersh!”“I can’t help it, Dick; I must speak out. Rockley is indefatigable there. The fellow is bewitched with her, and is always after her.”“It’s a lie!” exclaimed Linnell.“Call me a liar if you like, Dick, my lad. I shan’t send you a challenge. Plenty of people will satisfy you as to the truth of what I say, and I speak thus plainly because I am weary of seeing you so infatuated with Claire Denville.”Linnell tried to draw his arm away, but the Colonel retained it.“No, no, my dear boy, we cannot quarrel,” he said. “It is impossible. But about this going away. Right. I would go. It will cure you.”“Cure me?” said Linnell bitterly.“Yes, cure you. Dick, my boy, it makes me mad to see you so blind—to see you let a woman who looks guileless lead you—Well, I’ll say no more. I cannot believe in Claire Denville any more than I can in her little innocent-looking jade of a sister.”Linnell uttered an impatient ejaculation.“She goes about with a face as round-eyed as a baby’s, and as smooth; while all the time I know—”Linnell turned to him a look so full of agony that he ceased on the instant, but began again.“I cannot help it, Dick,” he said. “It worries me to see you growing so listless over a passion for a woman who does not care a straw for you.”“If I could believe that,” said Linnell, “I could bear it; but I am tortured by doubts, and every friend I have seems to be bent upon blackening the reputation of a woman who has been cruelly maligned.”Mellersh began to whistle softly, and then said, sharply:“What! going in here?”“Yes; will you come?”“No,” said Mellersh, giving him a curious look. “Expect a letter? Tut-tut, man, don’t eat me. You would not be the first man who made a post-office of Miss Clode’s circulating library. What is it, then—fiddle-strings?”Linnell nodded.“Go in, then; you can join me presently. I shall be on the pier. I say, Dick, the fair directress of this establishment ought to put up on her sign, ‘Dealer in heart-strings and fiddle-strings.’ There, good-bye for the present.”The Colonel went on, keeping a sharp look-out for Cora Dean’s pony-carriage; but it did not meet his eyes; and Richard Linnell turned into the library, meeting Lady Drelincourt, who smiled and simpered as she passed out, thrusting a book into her reticule.Miss Clode was just disappearing into the inner room, leaving round-eyed Annie in charge; but as soon as that young lady caught sight of Linnell, she darted back to whisper loudly:“Auntie, auntie: here’s Mr Richard Linnell.”The latter saw no reason why little Miss Clode should flush and turn pale, and then look up at him in a wistful manner, almost with reproach in her eyes.“Why, it’s quite a month since I’ve seen you, Mr Linnell,” she said, “and—and you look quite pale and thin.”“Do I, Miss Clode?” he said, smiling. “Ah, well, it’s a healthy sign—of robust health, you know. I want some—”“But you don’t look well, Mr Linnell,” she said hastily. “Annie, my dear, take this book to Mrs Barclay’s, and make haste back.”“Yes, auntie,” said the girl, in an ill-used tone.“And make haste,” cried Miss Clode. “Will you excuse me a minute, Mr Linnell?”“Oh, of course,” said the young man listlessly. “Give me the case with the violin strings, and I’ll select some.”Miss Clode did not appear as if she heard him, but went to the back of the shop to hurry her niece away, to that young lady’s great disgust, for she wanted to stare at Richard, whom she greatly admired, and hear what was said. Consequently, he was left turning over the books for a few minutes before Miss Clode returned, and, to his surprise, stood gazing up at him wistfully.“Well, Miss Clode,” he said with forced gaiety, “suppose somebody were waiting for me to join in a sonata?”“I—I beg your pardon,” she cried, flushing, and turning her back, she obtained the tin case that held the transparent rings, and placed it before him with a deep sigh.“Not well, Miss Clode?” said Richard cheerfully.To his astonishment she caught his hand in hers, and burst into tears.“No, no, no,” she cried, sobbing violently, “I am ill—heart-sick. Mr Linnell, please, pray come in, I want to speak to you.”“Why, Miss Clode!” he exclaimed.“Yes, you are surprised,” she exclaimed, “greatly surprised. You, so young and handsome, an independent gentleman, are astonished that a poor insignificant woman in my humble position should be always anxious about you—should—should—there, I can keep it back no longer,” she cried passionately, as she held with both hands tightly that which he tried to withdraw. “I must speak—I must tell you, or you will wreck and ruin your dear life. Mr Linnell—Richard—I love you. I love you so that I cannot bear to see and hear what I do—you are breaking my heart.”“Miss Clode!” cried Richard Linnell, amazed, filled with contempt, sorrow, pity, all in one. “Think of what you are saying. Why, what madness is this?”“The madness of a wretched, unhappy woman, who has known you so long, and whose love for you is a hundred times stronger than you can believe. But hush! Come in here. Some one may call at any moment, and I could not bear for them to see.”She loosed his hand, made a quick movement towards the little door at the end of the counter, and held it open for him to pass in.It was a painful position for one so full of chivalrous respect for women, and the young man stood trying to think of what to say to release himself in the best way from a situation that he would have looked upon as ludicrous, only that it was so full of pain.“You are shrinking from me!” she exclaimed. “Pray, pray, don’t do that, Mr Linnell. Have I not suffered enough? Come in; let me talk to you. Let me try and explain.”“It is impossible,” he said at last sternly. “Miss Clode, believe me that I will never breathe a syllable about this to a soul, but—”“Oh, you foolish, foolish boy!” she exclaimed, bursting into an hysterical fit of laughter. “How could you think such a thing as that? Is there no love a poor, weak, elderly woman like I am, could bear for one she has known from a boy, but such as filled your mind just then? There, there!” she cried, wiping her eyes quickly. “I have spoken wildly to you. Forgive me. I am a poor lonely woman, who fixed her affection upon you, Richard Linnell, farther back than you can imagine. Listen, and let me tell you,” she said in a soft, low voice, as she came round to the front of the counter, and laid her little thin hand upon his arm. “You lost your mother long ago, and have never known what it was to have a mother’s love; but, for years past, your every movement has been watched by me; I have suffered when you have been in pain; I have rejoiced when I knew that you were happy.”“My dear Miss Clode!” he exclaimed, in a half-wondering, half-pitying tone.“Yes—yes,” she panted; “speak to me like that. You pay me for much suffering and misery; but don’t—pray don’t despise me for all this.”“Despise you? No!” he said warmly; “but you do surprise me, Miss Clode. I know you have always spoken very kindly to me.”“And you have always thought it almost an impertinence,” she said sadly. “It has been. This is impertinent of me, you think, too, but I shall not presume. Mr Linnell, I have something to say to you, and when that is said, I shall keep my distance again, and it will be a secret between us.”“Why, Miss Clode,” said Richard, trying to smile cheerfully, “you are making up quite a romance out of one of your own books.”“Yes,” she said, looking wistfully in his eyes, “quite a romance, only it is all true, my dear. Now, will you come in?”He hesitated for a moment, and then walked right in to the parlour, and she followed him, wiping her red eyes with her handkerchief.“You will sit down?” she said, drawing forward an elbow-chair.He took it from her and placed it so that she could sit down, while he took another.“No,” she said softly, “I will stand. Mr Linnell, please sit down.”He smiled and looked at her, full of expectancy, while she stood wringing her handkerchief, and puckering up her forehead, her lips parted, and an eager look of pride in her eyes as she gazed at him.“It is very good of you to come,” she faltered. “I will say what I have to say directly, but I am very weak, my dear—I—I beg your pardon, Mr Linnell. Don’t—don’t think me too familiar. You are not angry with me for loving you?”“How can I be angry?” he said quickly. “I am surprised.”“You need not be,” she said. “You would not be, if you knew more of human nature than you do. Mr Richard Linnell, it is in a woman’s nature to desire to cling to and love something. Why should you be surprised that a poor lonely woman like me should love—as a son—the handsomest and truest gentleman we have in Saltinville?”“It is fortunate for me that we meet but seldom, Miss Clode,” said Richard, smiling, “if you hold me in such estimation as this.”“I do not see why,” she said gravely. “You are handsome. You are brave. Do you think I do not know how you fought that duel below the cliff?”“Oh, tut-tut,” he said quickly; “let that rest.”“Or how bravely you followed that Major Rockley the night when he carried off Miss Dean?”“My dear Miss Clode,” said Richard quickly, “we shall be drifting into scandal directly.”She looked at him pityingly, as she saw the flush upon his cheeks, and it seemed to be reflected in hers, as she spoke out now eagerly and quickly, as if she thought there was a risk of his taking offence and hurrying away.“I will not talk scandal,” she said, standing before him with her hands clasped; “I only want to talk of you—of your future, and to try and stop you before you go wrong.”“Miss Clode!” he exclaimed warmly.“Yes,” she said; “be angry with me. I expect it, and I’ll bear it; I’ll bear anything to see you happy. If I had seen you taking the downward course—gambling, or drinking, or intriguing, I should have tried to stop you—tried fiercely, and braved your anger, as I do now. For I must—I will speak.”“I have neither been gambling, drinking, nor intriguing, Miss Clode,” said Richard laughingly, “so I have not deserved your wrath.”“You are mocking at me, boy,” she said, with spirit.“You think me a foolish, eccentric little woman—half mad, perhaps. Think so,” she cried, “and, maybe, you are right; but, with all my weakness and folly, I love you, Richard Linnell, as a mother loves her offspring, and it is to save you from future misery that I have nerved myself to risk your displeasure, and perhaps your future notice, for I am not so vain as to think I can ever be looked upon by you as anything but what I am.”There was such warmth and sincerity in her words that Richard hastily took her hands.“Forgive me,” he said; “I am serious, and respect you for all this, Miss Clode.”She bent down quickly and kissed his hands, making him start, and then look down on her pityingly, his wonder increasing as he saw how moved she was, her tears having fallen on the hands she kissed.“There,” she cried, “I will not keep you, but I must say what I have on my mind, even if I offend you and make you angry as I did before.”Richard Linnell looked at her sharply, with his eyes kindling; but, without speaking, she joined her hands together and stood before him as if pleading.

Richard Linnell had left his quiet, patient-looking father busily copying a sheet of music, and joined Colonel Mellersh, who was waiting at the door ready for a stroll.

Cora Dean’s ponies were in the road, and that lady was just about to start for a drive.

Somehow, her door opened, and she came rustling down, closing her ears to a petulant call from her mother, and—perhaps it was an accident—so timed her descent that it would be impossible for the gentlemen to avoid offering to hand her to the carriage.

They both raised their hats as they stood upon the step, and she smiled and looked at Richard Linnell, but he did not stir.

“Come, Dick,” said Mellersh, with a half-sneer; “have you forgotten your manners?”

Linnell started, offered his arm, which was taken, and he led Cora down to the little carriage, the ponies beginning to stamp as the groom held their bits, while the bright, smiling look of their mistress passed away.

“The ponies look rather fresh,” said Richard Linnell, trying to be agreeable. “I should have their bearing reins tightened a little.”

“Why?” said Cora sharply, and with a glance full of resentment: and, at the same moment, she noted that Mellersh was leaning against the door-post, looking on.

“Why?” repeated Linnell, smiling in her face—but it was not the smile she wished to see—“for fear of another accident, of course.”

“What would you care?” she said in a low whisper. “I wish there would be another accident. Why didn’t you let me drown? I wish I were dead.”

She gave her ponies a sharp lash, the groom leaped aside, caught the back of the carriage, and swung himself up into his seat, and away they dashed at a gallop, while Linnell stood gazing after them, till Mellersh laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“Dick, Dick,” he said banteringly, “what a fierce wooer you are! You have been saying something to offend the fair Cora. Come along.”

“Does it give you pleasure to banter me like this?”

“Banter, man? I was in earnest.”

They walked along the parade in silence, and had not gone far before they met the Master of the Ceremonies, who raised his hat stiffly, in response to their salutes, and passed on.

“Oh, man, man, why don’t you take the good the gods provide you, instead of sighing after what you cannot have.”

“Mellersh,” said Richard, as if he had not heard him, “if I make up my mind to leave Saltinville, will you pay a good deal of attention to the old man?”

“Leave—Saltinville?”

“Yes; I am sick of the place. I must go right away.”

“Stop a moment! Hold your tongue! There is that scoundrel, Rockley, with his gang.”

In effect, a group of officers came along in the opposite direction, and, but for the disposition shown them to avoid a quarrel, their offensive monopolisation of the whole of the path would have resulted in an altercation.

“I shall have to cripple that fellow,” said Mellersh, as they walked on, after turning out into the road in passing the group. “I wonder young Denville does not shoot him for his goings on with his sister.”

“Mellersh!”

“I can’t help it, Dick; I must speak out. Rockley is indefatigable there. The fellow is bewitched with her, and is always after her.”

“It’s a lie!” exclaimed Linnell.

“Call me a liar if you like, Dick, my lad. I shan’t send you a challenge. Plenty of people will satisfy you as to the truth of what I say, and I speak thus plainly because I am weary of seeing you so infatuated with Claire Denville.”

Linnell tried to draw his arm away, but the Colonel retained it.

“No, no, my dear boy, we cannot quarrel,” he said. “It is impossible. But about this going away. Right. I would go. It will cure you.”

“Cure me?” said Linnell bitterly.

“Yes, cure you. Dick, my boy, it makes me mad to see you so blind—to see you let a woman who looks guileless lead you—Well, I’ll say no more. I cannot believe in Claire Denville any more than I can in her little innocent-looking jade of a sister.”

Linnell uttered an impatient ejaculation.

“She goes about with a face as round-eyed as a baby’s, and as smooth; while all the time I know—”

Linnell turned to him a look so full of agony that he ceased on the instant, but began again.

“I cannot help it, Dick,” he said. “It worries me to see you growing so listless over a passion for a woman who does not care a straw for you.”

“If I could believe that,” said Linnell, “I could bear it; but I am tortured by doubts, and every friend I have seems to be bent upon blackening the reputation of a woman who has been cruelly maligned.”

Mellersh began to whistle softly, and then said, sharply:

“What! going in here?”

“Yes; will you come?”

“No,” said Mellersh, giving him a curious look. “Expect a letter? Tut-tut, man, don’t eat me. You would not be the first man who made a post-office of Miss Clode’s circulating library. What is it, then—fiddle-strings?”

Linnell nodded.

“Go in, then; you can join me presently. I shall be on the pier. I say, Dick, the fair directress of this establishment ought to put up on her sign, ‘Dealer in heart-strings and fiddle-strings.’ There, good-bye for the present.”

The Colonel went on, keeping a sharp look-out for Cora Dean’s pony-carriage; but it did not meet his eyes; and Richard Linnell turned into the library, meeting Lady Drelincourt, who smiled and simpered as she passed out, thrusting a book into her reticule.

Miss Clode was just disappearing into the inner room, leaving round-eyed Annie in charge; but as soon as that young lady caught sight of Linnell, she darted back to whisper loudly:

“Auntie, auntie: here’s Mr Richard Linnell.”

The latter saw no reason why little Miss Clode should flush and turn pale, and then look up at him in a wistful manner, almost with reproach in her eyes.

“Why, it’s quite a month since I’ve seen you, Mr Linnell,” she said, “and—and you look quite pale and thin.”

“Do I, Miss Clode?” he said, smiling. “Ah, well, it’s a healthy sign—of robust health, you know. I want some—”

“But you don’t look well, Mr Linnell,” she said hastily. “Annie, my dear, take this book to Mrs Barclay’s, and make haste back.”

“Yes, auntie,” said the girl, in an ill-used tone.

“And make haste,” cried Miss Clode. “Will you excuse me a minute, Mr Linnell?”

“Oh, of course,” said the young man listlessly. “Give me the case with the violin strings, and I’ll select some.”

Miss Clode did not appear as if she heard him, but went to the back of the shop to hurry her niece away, to that young lady’s great disgust, for she wanted to stare at Richard, whom she greatly admired, and hear what was said. Consequently, he was left turning over the books for a few minutes before Miss Clode returned, and, to his surprise, stood gazing up at him wistfully.

“Well, Miss Clode,” he said with forced gaiety, “suppose somebody were waiting for me to join in a sonata?”

“I—I beg your pardon,” she cried, flushing, and turning her back, she obtained the tin case that held the transparent rings, and placed it before him with a deep sigh.

“Not well, Miss Clode?” said Richard cheerfully.

To his astonishment she caught his hand in hers, and burst into tears.

“No, no, no,” she cried, sobbing violently, “I am ill—heart-sick. Mr Linnell, please, pray come in, I want to speak to you.”

“Why, Miss Clode!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, you are surprised,” she exclaimed, “greatly surprised. You, so young and handsome, an independent gentleman, are astonished that a poor insignificant woman in my humble position should be always anxious about you—should—should—there, I can keep it back no longer,” she cried passionately, as she held with both hands tightly that which he tried to withdraw. “I must speak—I must tell you, or you will wreck and ruin your dear life. Mr Linnell—Richard—I love you. I love you so that I cannot bear to see and hear what I do—you are breaking my heart.”

“Miss Clode!” cried Richard Linnell, amazed, filled with contempt, sorrow, pity, all in one. “Think of what you are saying. Why, what madness is this?”

“The madness of a wretched, unhappy woman, who has known you so long, and whose love for you is a hundred times stronger than you can believe. But hush! Come in here. Some one may call at any moment, and I could not bear for them to see.”

She loosed his hand, made a quick movement towards the little door at the end of the counter, and held it open for him to pass in.

It was a painful position for one so full of chivalrous respect for women, and the young man stood trying to think of what to say to release himself in the best way from a situation that he would have looked upon as ludicrous, only that it was so full of pain.

“You are shrinking from me!” she exclaimed. “Pray, pray, don’t do that, Mr Linnell. Have I not suffered enough? Come in; let me talk to you. Let me try and explain.”

“It is impossible,” he said at last sternly. “Miss Clode, believe me that I will never breathe a syllable about this to a soul, but—”

“Oh, you foolish, foolish boy!” she exclaimed, bursting into an hysterical fit of laughter. “How could you think such a thing as that? Is there no love a poor, weak, elderly woman like I am, could bear for one she has known from a boy, but such as filled your mind just then? There, there!” she cried, wiping her eyes quickly. “I have spoken wildly to you. Forgive me. I am a poor lonely woman, who fixed her affection upon you, Richard Linnell, farther back than you can imagine. Listen, and let me tell you,” she said in a soft, low voice, as she came round to the front of the counter, and laid her little thin hand upon his arm. “You lost your mother long ago, and have never known what it was to have a mother’s love; but, for years past, your every movement has been watched by me; I have suffered when you have been in pain; I have rejoiced when I knew that you were happy.”

“My dear Miss Clode!” he exclaimed, in a half-wondering, half-pitying tone.

“Yes—yes,” she panted; “speak to me like that. You pay me for much suffering and misery; but don’t—pray don’t despise me for all this.”

“Despise you? No!” he said warmly; “but you do surprise me, Miss Clode. I know you have always spoken very kindly to me.”

“And you have always thought it almost an impertinence,” she said sadly. “It has been. This is impertinent of me, you think, too, but I shall not presume. Mr Linnell, I have something to say to you, and when that is said, I shall keep my distance again, and it will be a secret between us.”

“Why, Miss Clode,” said Richard, trying to smile cheerfully, “you are making up quite a romance out of one of your own books.”

“Yes,” she said, looking wistfully in his eyes, “quite a romance, only it is all true, my dear. Now, will you come in?”

He hesitated for a moment, and then walked right in to the parlour, and she followed him, wiping her red eyes with her handkerchief.

“You will sit down?” she said, drawing forward an elbow-chair.

He took it from her and placed it so that she could sit down, while he took another.

“No,” she said softly, “I will stand. Mr Linnell, please sit down.”

He smiled and looked at her, full of expectancy, while she stood wringing her handkerchief, and puckering up her forehead, her lips parted, and an eager look of pride in her eyes as she gazed at him.

“It is very good of you to come,” she faltered. “I will say what I have to say directly, but I am very weak, my dear—I—I beg your pardon, Mr Linnell. Don’t—don’t think me too familiar. You are not angry with me for loving you?”

“How can I be angry?” he said quickly. “I am surprised.”

“You need not be,” she said. “You would not be, if you knew more of human nature than you do. Mr Richard Linnell, it is in a woman’s nature to desire to cling to and love something. Why should you be surprised that a poor lonely woman like me should love—as a son—the handsomest and truest gentleman we have in Saltinville?”

“It is fortunate for me that we meet but seldom, Miss Clode,” said Richard, smiling, “if you hold me in such estimation as this.”

“I do not see why,” she said gravely. “You are handsome. You are brave. Do you think I do not know how you fought that duel below the cliff?”

“Oh, tut-tut,” he said quickly; “let that rest.”

“Or how bravely you followed that Major Rockley the night when he carried off Miss Dean?”

“My dear Miss Clode,” said Richard quickly, “we shall be drifting into scandal directly.”

She looked at him pityingly, as she saw the flush upon his cheeks, and it seemed to be reflected in hers, as she spoke out now eagerly and quickly, as if she thought there was a risk of his taking offence and hurrying away.

“I will not talk scandal,” she said, standing before him with her hands clasped; “I only want to talk of you—of your future, and to try and stop you before you go wrong.”

“Miss Clode!” he exclaimed warmly.

“Yes,” she said; “be angry with me. I expect it, and I’ll bear it; I’ll bear anything to see you happy. If I had seen you taking the downward course—gambling, or drinking, or intriguing, I should have tried to stop you—tried fiercely, and braved your anger, as I do now. For I must—I will speak.”

“I have neither been gambling, drinking, nor intriguing, Miss Clode,” said Richard laughingly, “so I have not deserved your wrath.”

“You are mocking at me, boy,” she said, with spirit.

“You think me a foolish, eccentric little woman—half mad, perhaps. Think so,” she cried, “and, maybe, you are right; but, with all my weakness and folly, I love you, Richard Linnell, as a mother loves her offspring, and it is to save you from future misery that I have nerved myself to risk your displeasure, and perhaps your future notice, for I am not so vain as to think I can ever be looked upon by you as anything but what I am.”

There was such warmth and sincerity in her words that Richard hastily took her hands.

“Forgive me,” he said; “I am serious, and respect you for all this, Miss Clode.”

She bent down quickly and kissed his hands, making him start, and then look down on her pityingly, his wonder increasing as he saw how moved she was, her tears having fallen on the hands she kissed.

“There,” she cried, “I will not keep you, but I must say what I have on my mind, even if I offend you and make you angry as I did before.”

Richard Linnell looked at her sharply, with his eyes kindling; but, without speaking, she joined her hands together and stood before him as if pleading.

Volume Three—Chapter Two.Miss Clode Feels that she has done Right.“The woman is mad,” said Richard Linnell, with a pitying look, and he made a movement as if to leave, but she caught his hand.“Pray—pray stay,” she whispered, “and let me—let me speak.”“Well, speak,” he said, in a low, angry voice, “but be careful of what you say.”“It is for your sake,” she whispered. “You do not know what I do. It is my lot to hear and see so much. I only want to take the veil from before your eyes.”“If it is to blacken some one whom I respect—”“Whom you love, boy, with a foolish, insensate love. It is to save you from misery that I speak.”“To tell me some vile scandal that I will not hear,” he cried.“That you shall hear, if I die for telling you, boy,” she cried, catching his wrist with both her hands. “Strike me if you like. Crush me if you will, but you shall hear the truth.”“The truth—what truth, woman?” cried Richard indignantly.“The truth about—”“Hush! you shall not speak her name,” cried Richard furiously.“It is enough that you know,” said little Miss Clode quickly. “Boy, boy, place your affection elsewhere, and not upon a woman who is about to elope to-night.”“It is not true,” he cried furiously, “and I am a weak fool to stay and listen to such calumnies.”“It is true,” said Miss Clode; “and it was to save you from the misery of discovering all this that I made up my mind to tell you.”“To have the pleasure of retailing this wretched scandal,” he retorted scornfully. “Woman, you disgrace your sex by calumniating a sweet, pure woman.”“It was to save you agony and despair,” she said piteously. “You might never have known of this. People work so slyly, and in such secrecy; and if you only knew how jealous I am of your future, you would not speak and look at me so cruelly as you do.”“Stop!” cried Richard fiercely. “It was you sent me that wretched anonymous letter once?”“Yes,” she said humbly—“to save you from misery—to open your eyes to the truth.”“To open my eyes to a lie,” he cried. “Miss Clode, enough of this. I promised you that I would look upon this as our secret: let it remain so, and we know each other no more.”He moved towards the door, but she clung to his wrist.“That was a mistake,” she panted; “but this time I am sure.”“I will not listen,” he cried. “Loose my wrist, woman.”“You shall listen,” she cried. “Richard Linnell, the post-horses are ordered, and Claire Denville leaves her home to-night with—”He did not hear the rest, for he had reached the shop, and hurried away, nearly overturning Annie, as she came in to find her aunt in tears.“Oh, auntie, what is the matter?” she cried.“Look here,” whispered Miss Clode, “are you sure there was no mistake in what you told me to-day?”“Quite sure, aunt dear. Jane Moggridge told me that there were post-horses ordered for Major Rockley, and for Sir Harry Payne, and for Sir Matthew Bray.”“That will do,” said Miss Clode quickly. “Now go right away.”Annie looked wider-eyed and rounder-faced than ever in her disappointment as she obeyed her aunt, while Miss Clode stood with her hands clasped to her side, gazing straight before her.“Have I done right?” she said to herself; “have I done wrong? It maddens me to see him so deceived—so blind. It was my duty to awaken him from his miserable infatuation, but suppose mischief should come after it?”She turned ghastly pale, and clutched at a chair.“No, no,” she cried, as she battled with her fears; “he is too brave and strong, and he will have Mellersh on his side. I have done right, I am sure. It is half breaking his heart, poor fellow; but better the sharp pain now than one that would last for life.”

“The woman is mad,” said Richard Linnell, with a pitying look, and he made a movement as if to leave, but she caught his hand.

“Pray—pray stay,” she whispered, “and let me—let me speak.”

“Well, speak,” he said, in a low, angry voice, “but be careful of what you say.”

“It is for your sake,” she whispered. “You do not know what I do. It is my lot to hear and see so much. I only want to take the veil from before your eyes.”

“If it is to blacken some one whom I respect—”

“Whom you love, boy, with a foolish, insensate love. It is to save you from misery that I speak.”

“To tell me some vile scandal that I will not hear,” he cried.

“That you shall hear, if I die for telling you, boy,” she cried, catching his wrist with both her hands. “Strike me if you like. Crush me if you will, but you shall hear the truth.”

“The truth—what truth, woman?” cried Richard indignantly.

“The truth about—”

“Hush! you shall not speak her name,” cried Richard furiously.

“It is enough that you know,” said little Miss Clode quickly. “Boy, boy, place your affection elsewhere, and not upon a woman who is about to elope to-night.”

“It is not true,” he cried furiously, “and I am a weak fool to stay and listen to such calumnies.”

“It is true,” said Miss Clode; “and it was to save you from the misery of discovering all this that I made up my mind to tell you.”

“To have the pleasure of retailing this wretched scandal,” he retorted scornfully. “Woman, you disgrace your sex by calumniating a sweet, pure woman.”

“It was to save you agony and despair,” she said piteously. “You might never have known of this. People work so slyly, and in such secrecy; and if you only knew how jealous I am of your future, you would not speak and look at me so cruelly as you do.”

“Stop!” cried Richard fiercely. “It was you sent me that wretched anonymous letter once?”

“Yes,” she said humbly—“to save you from misery—to open your eyes to the truth.”

“To open my eyes to a lie,” he cried. “Miss Clode, enough of this. I promised you that I would look upon this as our secret: let it remain so, and we know each other no more.”

He moved towards the door, but she clung to his wrist.

“That was a mistake,” she panted; “but this time I am sure.”

“I will not listen,” he cried. “Loose my wrist, woman.”

“You shall listen,” she cried. “Richard Linnell, the post-horses are ordered, and Claire Denville leaves her home to-night with—”

He did not hear the rest, for he had reached the shop, and hurried away, nearly overturning Annie, as she came in to find her aunt in tears.

“Oh, auntie, what is the matter?” she cried.

“Look here,” whispered Miss Clode, “are you sure there was no mistake in what you told me to-day?”

“Quite sure, aunt dear. Jane Moggridge told me that there were post-horses ordered for Major Rockley, and for Sir Harry Payne, and for Sir Matthew Bray.”

“That will do,” said Miss Clode quickly. “Now go right away.”

Annie looked wider-eyed and rounder-faced than ever in her disappointment as she obeyed her aunt, while Miss Clode stood with her hands clasped to her side, gazing straight before her.

“Have I done right?” she said to herself; “have I done wrong? It maddens me to see him so deceived—so blind. It was my duty to awaken him from his miserable infatuation, but suppose mischief should come after it?”

She turned ghastly pale, and clutched at a chair.

“No, no,” she cried, as she battled with her fears; “he is too brave and strong, and he will have Mellersh on his side. I have done right, I am sure. It is half breaking his heart, poor fellow; but better the sharp pain now than one that would last for life.”

Volume Three—Chapter Three.Mr Barclay is Busy.Josiah Barclay sat at his writing-table, looking about the most uncompromising specimen of humanity possible, when the door was softly opened, and his man-servant came in.“And nine’s seventy-three,” muttered Barclay, making an entry. “Hang the woman! I wish she’d come down and go on with these accounts. Well, Joseph?”“Lady Drelincourt, sir.”“Humph! Bless her! Let her wait. Seen that monkey again, Joseph?”“Isaac, sir? Denville’s Isaac?”“Yes, him. Dropped any more hints?”“Saw him last night, sir, at the Blue Posts.”“Well?”“Went on dropping hints again, sir, as soon as he had had a glass or two. ’Fraid he’s a fool, sir.”“Nothing to be afraid of in a fool, Joseph, so long as you keep him at a distance. So he chatters, eh?”“Yes, sir. Professes to have a mystery. He could speak if he liked, and there’s a deal he could say if he pleased, and lays his finger on the side of his nose, and all that sort of thing, sir. That’s been going on for months, and it’s what he calls confiding in me; but it never goes any further.”“And what do you think of it, Joseph?”“Nothing, sir,” said Barclay’s confidential man drily. “I believe it’s all to make him seem important. Lived a long while in an artificial soil, sir, and goes in for shams.”Barclay chuckled.“Don’t give him up, Joseph. I think he does know something, and it may be worth hearing. I find we can’t know too much. Does he confide in anyone else?”“No, sir, I think not.”“Well, don’t give him up. Now you can show Lady Drelincourt in: and while she is here run on to Moggridge’s. He has sent me a hint that a chaise or two are ordered for to-night. Find out who are going.”Joseph nodded and went out, while Barclay was muttering to himself that he liked to make sure none of his sheep were going astray, when Lady Drelincourt was shown in.“Humph! I must send for my wife,” said Barclay to himself. “It is dangerous when Venus invades one’s home;” and he looked gravely at the overdressed, painted-up old woman, with his thoughts dwelling upon her likeness to Lady Teigne—the murder, the missing jewels—and Isaac’s mysterious communications to his servant when they met at the Blue Posts to smoke a pipe.“Ah, doctor,” cried her ladyship playfully, “I’ve come to let you feel my pulse.”“Your pulse, Lady Drelincourt?” said Barclay. “Surely your ladyship’s circulation is not low?”“Horribly, Barclay. I am fainting for want of the circulating medium.”“But your ladyship’s lawyers?”“Oh, I can’t go to them again, and be bothered about deeds.”“Your ladyship wants acts, eh?”“To be sure, and at once, Barclay. I want five hundred pounds.”“A large sum, my lady,” said Barclay warily.“Stuff! A trifle. Just enough to take me on the Continent and back.”“Humph!” said Barclay aloud; and to himself: “One of the post-chaises.”“Now, no nonsense, Barclay, or I shall be compelled to whip you severely with my fan.”“That ought to be a pleasure, madam,” said Barclay politely. “But what security do you offer for five hundred pounds?”“Security! and from me, you wicked ogre!” said her ladyship playfully. “Why, you ought to feel honoured.”“I do, my lady, greatly; but—”“There, I don’t want to waste my time listening to stuff. I know what a close-fisted, miserly old wretch you are, and so I came prepared.”“Prepared, Lady Drelincourt?”“Of course. I only want a temporary loan, and here are my diamonds.”She drew a morocco case from the large reticule hanging on her arm, and passed it across the table.Barclay opened the case, took out a glittering necklet, breathed upon it, glanced at the rest of the contents of the case, replaced the necklet, and closed it.“Well, monster,” said her ladyship playfully, “will that do?”“Admirably, my lady,” said Barclay, taking a cash-box from a drawer, and counting out, with deft fingers, a number of notes. “Four fifty-five,” he muttered, as he passed the rustling bundle across to his visitor, and slipped the case and cash-box back.“I must have no nonsense about those diamonds, Barclay,” said her ladyship, “when I want them back.”“Your ladyship has only to sign this paper,” replied Barclay, “and hand me 600 pounds, and the gems come back to their owner.”“Ah, Barclay, you are a dreadful ogre,” she sighed, as she slipped the notes into her reticule. “You are quite as bad as a highwayman.”“Only more useful, my lady,” chuckled Barclay. “Well, Joseph?”The servant bent down and whispered:“Lord Carboro’.”“Humph!” ejaculated Barclay. “Would your ladyship object to meet Lord Carboro’?”“Yes. Horrors!” exclaimed her ladyship. “Or no, never mind; let him come up. I have called to inspect some of your china—these Sèvres jars.”Barclay nodded to his man, who left the room; and, in support of her ladyship’s suggestion, the money-lender was saying: “It’s an opportunity, my dear madam, that does not often occur; the workmanship is unique,” when Lord Carboro’ was shown in, and his keen eyes glittered as he took in the situation at a glance.“Ah, Lady Drelincourt, you here!”“Yes, I’m here,” she said, “but I’ve not come to borrow money; have you?”“Yes,” said his lordship sharply. “Barclay, a word with you.”The money-lender bowed.“Don’t change countenance,” said his lordship, “and talk about money. Get out your cash-box, and make believe to give me some.”Lady Drelincourt walked to the window with a small vase, and took out her great, square, gold-rimmed eye-glass.“Money’s very tight just now, my lord,” said Barclay aloud.“That’s right,” said his lordship, in a low tone. “Look here, Barclay. I’d have waited till that old cat had gone, but time’s precious. Look here. I’ve had a nasty hint that hits me very hard. You’ll call me an old fool. Well, I am; but never mind. I shall never have her, but I love that girl of Denville’s, and, damme, sir, I can’t see her go to the bad without stretching out a hand.”“What have you heard, my lord?” said Barclay, rattling his keys and opening his cash-box.“There’s some cursed plan afloat—elopement, or that sort of thing—to-night, I think; and we must stop it.”“We, my lord!” said Barclay, jingling some coin.“Yes, we. You’re an old friend of Denville’s. I can’t go to him.”“Who’s the man?” said Barclay.“Rockley, I think; curse him! Curse all these young, handsome men! Damme, sir, if I were forty years younger I’d be proud to marry her, for she’s a good girl—yes, sir, a good girl.”Barclay nodded.“But of course I can’t expect her to take to a toothless, gouty old imbecile like me, poor child.”“What do you know, my lord?”“Oh, only a garbled set-out. I’m not quite sure how things are; and sometimes it seems that it’s Sir Harry Payne, sometimes it seems to be Rockley. Now, look here, Barclay. Will you try with me to stop it? I couldn’t bear it to come off. If the girl were going to the church with some true-hearted fellow, I should feel a twinge, but I’d settle a thousand or two on her, and say, ‘God bless her!’ like a man; but I can’t see her go to the bad without making an effort to save her. Barclay, you old scoundrel, you’re laughing at me, and calling me an idiot for taking you into my confidence like this.”“You don’t think so, my lord,” said Barclay sternly; “and you give me credit for being an honest man, or you would not talk to me in this way.”“Honest?”“Yes,” said Barclay sharply. “Am I dishonest for making all the profit I can out of a set of profligates and fools?”“Barclay,” said his lordship, “if that old cat were not here I’d shake hands with you; as it is, that kick under the table means it. Yes, I do trust you, and your good-hearted wife, too. Will you help me?”“In every way I can,” said Barclay. “Between ourselves, Lord Carboro’, I’ve had a hint or two of an elopement to-night, and I’m going to see what it means.”“You have had a hint?” said Lord Carboro’ eagerly.“Yes, my lord. I must have twenty-five per cent. The risk is too great,” added Barclay aloud. “Drelincourt’s looking,” he said in a low tone. “I’m not sure who it is yet, or what it means; but there’s something on the way, and I’ll help your lordship all I can.”“That’s right, Barclay. I know you have wires all over the place, and can pull them. You started Moggridge, and I suppose, if the truth’s known, you could arrange for a post-chaise to break down anywhere you pleased.”“Your lordship gives me credit for being quite a magician,” said Barclay drily. “However, I’ll promise you this: Claire Denville shan’t come to harm if Josiah Barclay can save her.”“Thank you, Barclay,” said Lord Carboro’ softly. “I’ve not forgotten how she refused those pearls.”“And cheated me out of a score of good jewel transactions with your lordship,” said Barclay, handing him a slip of paper and a pen, which the old nobleman took and signed in Lady Drelincourt’s full view. “You trust to me, my lord. I’ll make all the inquiries necessary, and communicate with you to-night.”There was a little mock exchange of papers, and then, pocket-book in hand, Lord Carboro’ turned to Lady Drelincourt.“I have finished my business,” he said. “Shall I attend you down to your chair?”As the couple went out of the room with her ladyship mincing and simpering, and giving herself airs, Barclay uttered a low growl.“I believe that old woman would make love to a mummy or a stone statue if she couldn’t meet with a man. How I do hate the old wretch to be sure!”“Now look here, Jo-si-ah,” exclaimed Mrs Barclay, entering the room. “I won’t have it, though I don’t believe it’s true.”“Don’t believe what’s true?”“That when anyone is by himself and talking aloud, he is holding a conversation with—there I won’t say whom.”“Pish!” ejaculated Barclay angrily. “There, sit down, woman, and make an entry about Lady Drelincourt’s diamonds and the money I’ve lent on them. Set ’em down in the jewel book and then lock them up in the case. It wouldn’t do to lose them.”“Like her sister’s were lost,” said Mrs Barclay. “I wonder what became of them, Jo-si-ah.”She opened the case, examined the jewels, and then opened a cabinet and an iron safe within, where she deposited the valuables, afterwards making an entry in a book kept for the purpose, and another in the big ledger.“That’s done,” she said with a sigh of content. “Why, Jo-si-ah, what a rich man you are getting.”“Stuff! Don’t talk nonsense.”“I say, dear,” she said, “I wonder how it is that Claire Denville hasn’t been here for so long. It seems strange. Here’s somebody else.”The visitors proved to be Sir Harry Payne with Sir Matthew Bray, Mrs Barclay hurrying out to leave them with her husband.“Well, gentlemen?” said Barclay drily.“No, Barclay, it isn’t well,” cried Sir Harry, “nor will it be till I’ve got a couple of hundred pounds out of you.”“And I one hundred,” said Sir Matthew pompously.“My turn first,” said Sir Harry, laughing. “Now, Barclay, two hundred, and no nonsense.”Barclay shook his head, but his money was safe with Sir Harry, for he already held certain deeds that would cover principal and his large interest.“Now, Matt,” said Sir Harry, “your turn.”He thrust a sheaf of notes into his pocket laughingly, and Sir Matthew rolled up.“Now, Mr Barclay,” he said, taking his friend’s seat, while that gentleman began inspecting china and bronzes, “I want only a hundred.”“Which you can’t have, Sir Matthew,” said Barclay shortly. “You’ve got to the end of your tether, and I shall have to put you in my lawyer’s hands.”“What, just now, when I have only to go on to be a rich man?”“My dear Sir Matthew, for two years past I’ve supplied your wants, and you’ve been for ever dangling before my eyes the bait of a rich marriage, when you would pay me back. No more money, sir, from me.”“Barclay, my dear fellow, don’t be a fool.”“I’ve just told you that I do not mean to be,” said Barclay shortly. “No hundred from me, Sir Matthew.”“What, not if the matter were settled, and it was a case of post-horses, Dover, Continent, and a wedding abroad?”“With some penniless girl,” growled Barclay.“With a lady of property and title, sir. Hush! be quiet—On my soul, Barclay. It’s all right and settled. A rich marriage.”“Stuff, sir! If it were a rich marriage you would not need money.”“Preliminary expenses, dear boy. I can’t ask her to pay the postboys.”Barclay looked at him keenly.“Is this a fact?”“Yes; to-night, sir. Honour bright. Don’t spoil sport, Barclay.”The money-lender pursed up his lips and twisted a pen in his fingers for a few moments.“Well, Sir Matthew,” he said at last, “I’ll give you this chance. If it does not come off your commission is mine. You’ll have to sell out.”“And I will, Barclay. But there’s no fear. The game’s won, sir. After a long siege the lady has at last surrendered.”“A young and pretty woman, eh, Sir Matthew?”“Well—er—not too young,” said the great dragoon. “I don’t care for bread-and-butter misses.”“Drelincourt, sure enough,” said Barclay to himself, as he wrote out the customary form on a bill stamp. “Well, let the old fool marry him. He’ll make her pay for it pretty sharply, I’ll be bound. I shall get my money back, and he’ll save his commission, which will go for future loans.”“There, Sir Matthew, sign that, please,” he said aloud.“Barclay, you’re a gentleman. I’m a made man, and you shall have all the other bills taken up.”He scratched his name across the bill, passed it back, and Barclay counted out some notes and gave them in exchange.“That’s your sort,” cried Sir Matthew, counting the notes. “Why, Barclay, the bill was for a hundred. Here are only notes for sixty.”“Quite right, Sir Matthew: the other is for the discount.”“Oh, but—”“My dear Sir Matthew, if you are dissatisfied, pray give me the notes, and I’ll tear up the bill. You forget the risk. Those are my terms.”“Oh, but, Barclay.”“What’s he making you smart, Matt?” cried Sir Harry, joining them. “Just his way.”“I’ve offered to cancel the bill, if Sir Matthew likes,” said Barclay.“Have you got any money at all, Matt?”“Yes, some, but—”“Hang it! Come along then, man; we’ve no time to lose. Come on and chance it.”Sir Harry took his friend’s arm, and hurried him out, and Barclay was nodding his head thoughtfully as the door closed, but only for another to open, and Mrs Barclay to enter and sit down, making the entries of his two transactions as a matter of course.“Old woman,” said Barclay quietly.“Jo-si-ah!” she said, turning to him quickly, and laying her hand upon his.“I try to think Claire Denville a good girl.”“I’m sure she is,” cried Mrs Barclay. “Oh, Josiah, why do you talk like that?”“Because things look ugly, old lady, and I shall be very sorry if you’ve been deceived.”“Oh, but, my dear,” panted Mrs Barclay, “I’m sure.”“One can’t be sure of anything with a pretty well-flattered woman. You know what you said about that row at Denville’s, when Sir Harry Payne was found with Claire that night.”“Yes: I said it was May, and I’m sure of it.”“You’re not sure, old lady—you can’t be. Suppose it was Claire after all.”“I say it was May. Claire Denville couldn’t do such a thing.”“I don’t know. I hope not,” said Barclay. “I want to believe in her. Well, Joseph?”“Two chaises to-night, sir, Moggridge says. Sir Harry Payne and Sir Matthew Bray.”“That will do. Well, old lady?”“It can’t be for Claire, Jo-si-ah, I’m sure,” cried Mrs Barclay. “She wouldn’t look at that miserable fop.”“Suppose he is jackal for Rockley, old lady?”“Oh, Jo-si-ah, don’t. It must be for her sister May.”“No, I think not. She and Burnett have got on all right lately, and Payne hasn’t been near her, that I know. Look here, old woman, I won’t believe it if I can help it, but it looks very much as if Claire is really going off to-night.”“Then she shan’t,” cried Mrs Barclay, beginning to cry. “If the poor girl has been worked upon just when she was poor and miserable, and has been weak enough to consent, she shall find she has got a friend who will stand by her, and give her good advice, and stop her. Jo-si-ah, I love that girl as if she was my own child—and—”“Well?”“I shall go down to their house and see her and talk to her, and I shall stop with her till I know she’s safe. That is, mind, if it’s true. But it ain’t.”“Well,” said Barclay, “you shall do so, for I don’t want her to go wrong. Only mind this, it is suspicious that she has not been near you lately.”“Not it,” said Mrs Barclay, “bless her! She’s had some reason, and—there, that’s her knock, I’ll swear.”She ran out of the room, and came back directly with Claire, looking more pale and troubled than ever, leaning upon her arm.Mrs Barclay darted a triumphant look at her husband, and Barclay took Claire’s hand in a grave distant manner that made the visitor wince.

Josiah Barclay sat at his writing-table, looking about the most uncompromising specimen of humanity possible, when the door was softly opened, and his man-servant came in.

“And nine’s seventy-three,” muttered Barclay, making an entry. “Hang the woman! I wish she’d come down and go on with these accounts. Well, Joseph?”

“Lady Drelincourt, sir.”

“Humph! Bless her! Let her wait. Seen that monkey again, Joseph?”

“Isaac, sir? Denville’s Isaac?”

“Yes, him. Dropped any more hints?”

“Saw him last night, sir, at the Blue Posts.”

“Well?”

“Went on dropping hints again, sir, as soon as he had had a glass or two. ’Fraid he’s a fool, sir.”

“Nothing to be afraid of in a fool, Joseph, so long as you keep him at a distance. So he chatters, eh?”

“Yes, sir. Professes to have a mystery. He could speak if he liked, and there’s a deal he could say if he pleased, and lays his finger on the side of his nose, and all that sort of thing, sir. That’s been going on for months, and it’s what he calls confiding in me; but it never goes any further.”

“And what do you think of it, Joseph?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Barclay’s confidential man drily. “I believe it’s all to make him seem important. Lived a long while in an artificial soil, sir, and goes in for shams.”

Barclay chuckled.

“Don’t give him up, Joseph. I think he does know something, and it may be worth hearing. I find we can’t know too much. Does he confide in anyone else?”

“No, sir, I think not.”

“Well, don’t give him up. Now you can show Lady Drelincourt in: and while she is here run on to Moggridge’s. He has sent me a hint that a chaise or two are ordered for to-night. Find out who are going.”

Joseph nodded and went out, while Barclay was muttering to himself that he liked to make sure none of his sheep were going astray, when Lady Drelincourt was shown in.

“Humph! I must send for my wife,” said Barclay to himself. “It is dangerous when Venus invades one’s home;” and he looked gravely at the overdressed, painted-up old woman, with his thoughts dwelling upon her likeness to Lady Teigne—the murder, the missing jewels—and Isaac’s mysterious communications to his servant when they met at the Blue Posts to smoke a pipe.

“Ah, doctor,” cried her ladyship playfully, “I’ve come to let you feel my pulse.”

“Your pulse, Lady Drelincourt?” said Barclay. “Surely your ladyship’s circulation is not low?”

“Horribly, Barclay. I am fainting for want of the circulating medium.”

“But your ladyship’s lawyers?”

“Oh, I can’t go to them again, and be bothered about deeds.”

“Your ladyship wants acts, eh?”

“To be sure, and at once, Barclay. I want five hundred pounds.”

“A large sum, my lady,” said Barclay warily.

“Stuff! A trifle. Just enough to take me on the Continent and back.”

“Humph!” said Barclay aloud; and to himself: “One of the post-chaises.”

“Now, no nonsense, Barclay, or I shall be compelled to whip you severely with my fan.”

“That ought to be a pleasure, madam,” said Barclay politely. “But what security do you offer for five hundred pounds?”

“Security! and from me, you wicked ogre!” said her ladyship playfully. “Why, you ought to feel honoured.”

“I do, my lady, greatly; but—”

“There, I don’t want to waste my time listening to stuff. I know what a close-fisted, miserly old wretch you are, and so I came prepared.”

“Prepared, Lady Drelincourt?”

“Of course. I only want a temporary loan, and here are my diamonds.”

She drew a morocco case from the large reticule hanging on her arm, and passed it across the table.

Barclay opened the case, took out a glittering necklet, breathed upon it, glanced at the rest of the contents of the case, replaced the necklet, and closed it.

“Well, monster,” said her ladyship playfully, “will that do?”

“Admirably, my lady,” said Barclay, taking a cash-box from a drawer, and counting out, with deft fingers, a number of notes. “Four fifty-five,” he muttered, as he passed the rustling bundle across to his visitor, and slipped the case and cash-box back.

“I must have no nonsense about those diamonds, Barclay,” said her ladyship, “when I want them back.”

“Your ladyship has only to sign this paper,” replied Barclay, “and hand me 600 pounds, and the gems come back to their owner.”

“Ah, Barclay, you are a dreadful ogre,” she sighed, as she slipped the notes into her reticule. “You are quite as bad as a highwayman.”

“Only more useful, my lady,” chuckled Barclay. “Well, Joseph?”

The servant bent down and whispered:

“Lord Carboro’.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Barclay. “Would your ladyship object to meet Lord Carboro’?”

“Yes. Horrors!” exclaimed her ladyship. “Or no, never mind; let him come up. I have called to inspect some of your china—these Sèvres jars.”

Barclay nodded to his man, who left the room; and, in support of her ladyship’s suggestion, the money-lender was saying: “It’s an opportunity, my dear madam, that does not often occur; the workmanship is unique,” when Lord Carboro’ was shown in, and his keen eyes glittered as he took in the situation at a glance.

“Ah, Lady Drelincourt, you here!”

“Yes, I’m here,” she said, “but I’ve not come to borrow money; have you?”

“Yes,” said his lordship sharply. “Barclay, a word with you.”

The money-lender bowed.

“Don’t change countenance,” said his lordship, “and talk about money. Get out your cash-box, and make believe to give me some.”

Lady Drelincourt walked to the window with a small vase, and took out her great, square, gold-rimmed eye-glass.

“Money’s very tight just now, my lord,” said Barclay aloud.

“That’s right,” said his lordship, in a low tone. “Look here, Barclay. I’d have waited till that old cat had gone, but time’s precious. Look here. I’ve had a nasty hint that hits me very hard. You’ll call me an old fool. Well, I am; but never mind. I shall never have her, but I love that girl of Denville’s, and, damme, sir, I can’t see her go to the bad without stretching out a hand.”

“What have you heard, my lord?” said Barclay, rattling his keys and opening his cash-box.

“There’s some cursed plan afloat—elopement, or that sort of thing—to-night, I think; and we must stop it.”

“We, my lord!” said Barclay, jingling some coin.

“Yes, we. You’re an old friend of Denville’s. I can’t go to him.”

“Who’s the man?” said Barclay.

“Rockley, I think; curse him! Curse all these young, handsome men! Damme, sir, if I were forty years younger I’d be proud to marry her, for she’s a good girl—yes, sir, a good girl.”

Barclay nodded.

“But of course I can’t expect her to take to a toothless, gouty old imbecile like me, poor child.”

“What do you know, my lord?”

“Oh, only a garbled set-out. I’m not quite sure how things are; and sometimes it seems that it’s Sir Harry Payne, sometimes it seems to be Rockley. Now, look here, Barclay. Will you try with me to stop it? I couldn’t bear it to come off. If the girl were going to the church with some true-hearted fellow, I should feel a twinge, but I’d settle a thousand or two on her, and say, ‘God bless her!’ like a man; but I can’t see her go to the bad without making an effort to save her. Barclay, you old scoundrel, you’re laughing at me, and calling me an idiot for taking you into my confidence like this.”

“You don’t think so, my lord,” said Barclay sternly; “and you give me credit for being an honest man, or you would not talk to me in this way.”

“Honest?”

“Yes,” said Barclay sharply. “Am I dishonest for making all the profit I can out of a set of profligates and fools?”

“Barclay,” said his lordship, “if that old cat were not here I’d shake hands with you; as it is, that kick under the table means it. Yes, I do trust you, and your good-hearted wife, too. Will you help me?”

“In every way I can,” said Barclay. “Between ourselves, Lord Carboro’, I’ve had a hint or two of an elopement to-night, and I’m going to see what it means.”

“You have had a hint?” said Lord Carboro’ eagerly.

“Yes, my lord. I must have twenty-five per cent. The risk is too great,” added Barclay aloud. “Drelincourt’s looking,” he said in a low tone. “I’m not sure who it is yet, or what it means; but there’s something on the way, and I’ll help your lordship all I can.”

“That’s right, Barclay. I know you have wires all over the place, and can pull them. You started Moggridge, and I suppose, if the truth’s known, you could arrange for a post-chaise to break down anywhere you pleased.”

“Your lordship gives me credit for being quite a magician,” said Barclay drily. “However, I’ll promise you this: Claire Denville shan’t come to harm if Josiah Barclay can save her.”

“Thank you, Barclay,” said Lord Carboro’ softly. “I’ve not forgotten how she refused those pearls.”

“And cheated me out of a score of good jewel transactions with your lordship,” said Barclay, handing him a slip of paper and a pen, which the old nobleman took and signed in Lady Drelincourt’s full view. “You trust to me, my lord. I’ll make all the inquiries necessary, and communicate with you to-night.”

There was a little mock exchange of papers, and then, pocket-book in hand, Lord Carboro’ turned to Lady Drelincourt.

“I have finished my business,” he said. “Shall I attend you down to your chair?”

As the couple went out of the room with her ladyship mincing and simpering, and giving herself airs, Barclay uttered a low growl.

“I believe that old woman would make love to a mummy or a stone statue if she couldn’t meet with a man. How I do hate the old wretch to be sure!”

“Now look here, Jo-si-ah,” exclaimed Mrs Barclay, entering the room. “I won’t have it, though I don’t believe it’s true.”

“Don’t believe what’s true?”

“That when anyone is by himself and talking aloud, he is holding a conversation with—there I won’t say whom.”

“Pish!” ejaculated Barclay angrily. “There, sit down, woman, and make an entry about Lady Drelincourt’s diamonds and the money I’ve lent on them. Set ’em down in the jewel book and then lock them up in the case. It wouldn’t do to lose them.”

“Like her sister’s were lost,” said Mrs Barclay. “I wonder what became of them, Jo-si-ah.”

She opened the case, examined the jewels, and then opened a cabinet and an iron safe within, where she deposited the valuables, afterwards making an entry in a book kept for the purpose, and another in the big ledger.

“That’s done,” she said with a sigh of content. “Why, Jo-si-ah, what a rich man you are getting.”

“Stuff! Don’t talk nonsense.”

“I say, dear,” she said, “I wonder how it is that Claire Denville hasn’t been here for so long. It seems strange. Here’s somebody else.”

The visitors proved to be Sir Harry Payne with Sir Matthew Bray, Mrs Barclay hurrying out to leave them with her husband.

“Well, gentlemen?” said Barclay drily.

“No, Barclay, it isn’t well,” cried Sir Harry, “nor will it be till I’ve got a couple of hundred pounds out of you.”

“And I one hundred,” said Sir Matthew pompously.

“My turn first,” said Sir Harry, laughing. “Now, Barclay, two hundred, and no nonsense.”

Barclay shook his head, but his money was safe with Sir Harry, for he already held certain deeds that would cover principal and his large interest.

“Now, Matt,” said Sir Harry, “your turn.”

He thrust a sheaf of notes into his pocket laughingly, and Sir Matthew rolled up.

“Now, Mr Barclay,” he said, taking his friend’s seat, while that gentleman began inspecting china and bronzes, “I want only a hundred.”

“Which you can’t have, Sir Matthew,” said Barclay shortly. “You’ve got to the end of your tether, and I shall have to put you in my lawyer’s hands.”

“What, just now, when I have only to go on to be a rich man?”

“My dear Sir Matthew, for two years past I’ve supplied your wants, and you’ve been for ever dangling before my eyes the bait of a rich marriage, when you would pay me back. No more money, sir, from me.”

“Barclay, my dear fellow, don’t be a fool.”

“I’ve just told you that I do not mean to be,” said Barclay shortly. “No hundred from me, Sir Matthew.”

“What, not if the matter were settled, and it was a case of post-horses, Dover, Continent, and a wedding abroad?”

“With some penniless girl,” growled Barclay.

“With a lady of property and title, sir. Hush! be quiet—On my soul, Barclay. It’s all right and settled. A rich marriage.”

“Stuff, sir! If it were a rich marriage you would not need money.”

“Preliminary expenses, dear boy. I can’t ask her to pay the postboys.”

Barclay looked at him keenly.

“Is this a fact?”

“Yes; to-night, sir. Honour bright. Don’t spoil sport, Barclay.”

The money-lender pursed up his lips and twisted a pen in his fingers for a few moments.

“Well, Sir Matthew,” he said at last, “I’ll give you this chance. If it does not come off your commission is mine. You’ll have to sell out.”

“And I will, Barclay. But there’s no fear. The game’s won, sir. After a long siege the lady has at last surrendered.”

“A young and pretty woman, eh, Sir Matthew?”

“Well—er—not too young,” said the great dragoon. “I don’t care for bread-and-butter misses.”

“Drelincourt, sure enough,” said Barclay to himself, as he wrote out the customary form on a bill stamp. “Well, let the old fool marry him. He’ll make her pay for it pretty sharply, I’ll be bound. I shall get my money back, and he’ll save his commission, which will go for future loans.”

“There, Sir Matthew, sign that, please,” he said aloud.

“Barclay, you’re a gentleman. I’m a made man, and you shall have all the other bills taken up.”

He scratched his name across the bill, passed it back, and Barclay counted out some notes and gave them in exchange.

“That’s your sort,” cried Sir Matthew, counting the notes. “Why, Barclay, the bill was for a hundred. Here are only notes for sixty.”

“Quite right, Sir Matthew: the other is for the discount.”

“Oh, but—”

“My dear Sir Matthew, if you are dissatisfied, pray give me the notes, and I’ll tear up the bill. You forget the risk. Those are my terms.”

“Oh, but, Barclay.”

“What’s he making you smart, Matt?” cried Sir Harry, joining them. “Just his way.”

“I’ve offered to cancel the bill, if Sir Matthew likes,” said Barclay.

“Have you got any money at all, Matt?”

“Yes, some, but—”

“Hang it! Come along then, man; we’ve no time to lose. Come on and chance it.”

Sir Harry took his friend’s arm, and hurried him out, and Barclay was nodding his head thoughtfully as the door closed, but only for another to open, and Mrs Barclay to enter and sit down, making the entries of his two transactions as a matter of course.

“Old woman,” said Barclay quietly.

“Jo-si-ah!” she said, turning to him quickly, and laying her hand upon his.

“I try to think Claire Denville a good girl.”

“I’m sure she is,” cried Mrs Barclay. “Oh, Josiah, why do you talk like that?”

“Because things look ugly, old lady, and I shall be very sorry if you’ve been deceived.”

“Oh, but, my dear,” panted Mrs Barclay, “I’m sure.”

“One can’t be sure of anything with a pretty well-flattered woman. You know what you said about that row at Denville’s, when Sir Harry Payne was found with Claire that night.”

“Yes: I said it was May, and I’m sure of it.”

“You’re not sure, old lady—you can’t be. Suppose it was Claire after all.”

“I say it was May. Claire Denville couldn’t do such a thing.”

“I don’t know. I hope not,” said Barclay. “I want to believe in her. Well, Joseph?”

“Two chaises to-night, sir, Moggridge says. Sir Harry Payne and Sir Matthew Bray.”

“That will do. Well, old lady?”

“It can’t be for Claire, Jo-si-ah, I’m sure,” cried Mrs Barclay. “She wouldn’t look at that miserable fop.”

“Suppose he is jackal for Rockley, old lady?”

“Oh, Jo-si-ah, don’t. It must be for her sister May.”

“No, I think not. She and Burnett have got on all right lately, and Payne hasn’t been near her, that I know. Look here, old woman, I won’t believe it if I can help it, but it looks very much as if Claire is really going off to-night.”

“Then she shan’t,” cried Mrs Barclay, beginning to cry. “If the poor girl has been worked upon just when she was poor and miserable, and has been weak enough to consent, she shall find she has got a friend who will stand by her, and give her good advice, and stop her. Jo-si-ah, I love that girl as if she was my own child—and—”

“Well?”

“I shall go down to their house and see her and talk to her, and I shall stop with her till I know she’s safe. That is, mind, if it’s true. But it ain’t.”

“Well,” said Barclay, “you shall do so, for I don’t want her to go wrong. Only mind this, it is suspicious that she has not been near you lately.”

“Not it,” said Mrs Barclay, “bless her! She’s had some reason, and—there, that’s her knock, I’ll swear.”

She ran out of the room, and came back directly with Claire, looking more pale and troubled than ever, leaning upon her arm.

Mrs Barclay darted a triumphant look at her husband, and Barclay took Claire’s hand in a grave distant manner that made the visitor wince.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.Mrs Barclay has her Turn.Claire winced again, and involuntarily glanced at the door, repenting that she had come, as she saw Mrs Barclay frown and make a series of grimaces at her lord, all of which were peculiar enough to a stranger, but which simply meant to the initiated: “Go away and leave us together: I can manage her better than I could if you stayed here.”Barclay comprehended from old experience all that his wife meant to signify, and, making some excuse, he shortly left the room.“There, that’s right, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay warmly. “Men are such a nuisance when you want to have a nice cosy chat. Why dear, dear, dear, how white you look. Your bonny face oughtn’t to be like that. You’ve been wherriting yourself over something. It isn’t money, is it?”“No, Mrs Barclay, we seem to have been a little better off lately.”“But you are in trouble, my darling? Now don’t say you aren’t, but speak out plain to me. Oh, I wish I could make you believe that I am a very, very true friend, and that I want to help you. There, I know: you’ve been falling out with Cora Dean.”Mrs Barclay prided herself on this as being a master stroke of policy to draw Claire out and make her ready to confide in her; but Claire shook her head and smiled sadly.“No,” she said dreamily, “I am not in trouble about that. I thought I would call and see you to-day. There, I must go now.”“Is that all?” said Mrs Barclay in a disappointed tone. “Why, I was in hopes that you were over head and ears in trouble, and had come to me for help.”“Mrs Barclay!” exclaimed Claire.“No, no, no, my dear. What a stupid old woman I am! I didn’t mean that, but if you were in trouble, I hoped that, seeing how much you are alone, you had come to me for help and advice.”Claire’s face worked and her lips quivered. She vainly tried to speak, and finally, utterly broken-down with the agony of her encounters on the previous day with Louis and her sister, with the following sleepless night and the despair of the present day, during which she had been vainly striving to see some way out of the difficulty, she threw herself upon the breast offered to receive her troubles and sobbed aloud.“I knew—I knew,” whispered Mrs Barclay, soothing and caressing the poor girl by turns. “I knew as well as if some one had told me that you were in trouble and wanted help. There, there, cry away, my darling. Have a good long patient one, and don’t hurry yourself. You’ll be a world better afterwards; and if you like then to tell me about it, why, you see, you can, and if you don’t like to, why, there’s no harm done.”Even if the amiable plump old soul had said nothing more than the first sympathising words, Claire’s emotion, so long pent up, would now have had its vent, the tears seeming to relieve her overburdened brain as she clung to her hostess, listening, and yet only half hearing her whispered words.It was perhaps as well, for with all its true-heartedness there was a comic side to Mrs Barclay’s well-meant sympathy; and some of her adjurations to “cry away,” and not to “stop it,” and the like, would have provoked a smile from anyone who had been present at the scene.“There, there, there, then, that’s better,” cried Mrs Barclay, beaming in Claire’s face and kissing her tenderly. “Now you’ll be comfortable again; and now, my dear child, we’re all alone, and if you like to make a confidant of me, you shall find you can trust me as much as my Jo-si-ah can. But don’t you think I’m a scandal-loving old busybody, my dear, for I don’t ask you to tell me anything.”“You are always so good to me, Mrs Barclay,” sighed Claire, clinging to the ample breast.“Oh, nonsense, my dear. I only offer to be your confidant, so as to help you in your trouble. For you are in trouble, my dear—dreadful trouble, and it hurts me to see you so—hurts me, my dear, more than you think for, so what I say is—If it does you good to come and sit with me and be comforted by having a good cry over me, just as if you were my little girl, why you shall, and I shan’t ask you a single question; but if you think such a silly stout old woman can do you any good by giving you advice, or—now don’t be offended—finding you money; or by asking my Jo-si-ah what to do—”“Mrs Barclay!” cried Claire in tones of dismay, and with her cheeks flushing.“Ah, that’s the way of the world, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay with a quiet contented smile, as she drew Claire’s head back upon her shoulder, and stroked and patted her cheek. “You don’t know my Jo-si-ah. He seems a rough harsh-spoken old money-grubber, but he’s the tenderest-hearted, most generous man that ever lived. There, there, you needn’t speak. I was only going to finish and say Claire Denville has two true friends here in this house; and as for me, here I am, ready to help you in any way, for I believe in you, my dear, in spite of everything that has been said, as being as good a girl as ever breathed.”“Heaven bless you!” exclaimed Claire, nestling to her; “you are a true friend, and I will tell you all my trouble.”“That’s right, my dear, so you shall, and two heads are better than one. Shall I help you?”“Oh, yes, yes, Mrs Barclay, if you can. I am so helpless, so weak with this new trouble, I don’t know what to do.”“No; and you’ll be driving yourself half crazy, my dear,” whispered Mrs Barclay. “Why, I know as well as can be what it is.”“You know, Mrs Barclay?”“To be sure I do, my dear. Now, why not let me ask him here some day, and just talk the matter quietly over with him?”“Yes, yes,” cried Claire; “but he is so impetuous, and the situation is so horrible.”“Not a bit of it, my dear. Of course, he is impetuous. Enough, to make him, hearing such things as he does; but just you let me get him here some day and have a chat with him, and then you see him, and try and understand each other. Never mind about the money, my dear: be poor and happy. Love’s better than riches; and the happiness enjoyed by two good people who really care for each other is—well, I don’t want to be single.”“Mrs Barclay! What do you mean?”“Why, that with all his doubts and distances, Richard Linnell worships you as much as you love him.”“Oh, hush, hush, hush!” cried Claire piteously. “Don’t talk about that, Mrs Barclay. It is impossible.”“It isn’t, my dear, and that’s flat. You’re being cruel to him, and more cruel to your own dear self. Come, now, try and be advised.”“Mrs Barclay,” cried Claire wildly, “you don’t know. My trouble now is far greater than anything about self;” and, clinging to the only friend she seemed to have, she told her all.Mrs Barclay sat with wide-open eyes to the very end, and then, in the midst of the terrible silence, she took out a violently-scented pocket-handkerchief, and wiped the dew from her brow, as she said softly:“Oh, my gracious me!”“It has driven me nearly mad,” cried Claire, wringing her hands, “and while I stay here something terrible may have happened. I must go—I must go.”“No, no; sit still, my dear,” cried Mrs Barclay, drawing her back to her side, and speaking in a quick, businesslike way. “I was quite knocked over by what you said. My poor, dear child! Is there to be no end to your troubles? But there, we mustn’t talk nonsense, but act sensibly. This is like a smash—a sort of bankruptcy, only it’s what Jo-si-ah would call social and not monetary. There, there, it’s a terrible business, but I’m glad you’ve had the courage to tell me. Oh, my dear, I’ve always said to Jo-si-ah that she was a wicked little thing who was getting you into trouble. But let that go. Now, then, what to do first? Your poor father don’t know a word?”“I have not dared to tell him.”“No, and you’ve been screening her, and taking care of that little one, and—dear—dear—what a world this is! Tut—tut—tut! I am doing nothing but talk. Now, look here, Claire; the first thing that strikes me is that she must be got away—right away—for the present.”“Yes, yes; but how?” cried Claire.“Jo-si-ah shall settle that.”“Mr Barclay!” cried Claire in terror.“To be sure, my dear. We want a strong man to act in a case like this. Your sister must be got away somewhere, and you must go with her. You had both better go to-night. No one shall know where you are but Jo-si-ah and me, and you can take care of her until Jo-si-ah has told your father all about it.”“Yes,” sighed Claire, as her companion’s calm, businesslike manner impressed her.“If we tell him first he will do no good, poor man, only be horribly upset, and there’ll be no end of scenes, and no business done.”Claire acquiesced with a look.“Then Jo-si-ah can settle it all with your father and Mr Burnett, and this Mr Gravani, what is to be done in a businesslike way. There, there, let me finish. The weak little thing has got herself into this dreadful tangle, and what we have to do is to get her out the best way we can. It’s of no use to be sentimental and sit down and cry; we must act like women.”Claire looked at her in admiration, astounded by her friend’s calm, businesslike manner.“Now, perhaps, my dear, my Jo-si-ah may upset all my plans by proposing something better; but, as far as I see it now, you had better go straight off to your sister May—it will soon be dusk—and bring her here. I’ll be ready and waiting, and I’ll go with you both to the coach. You had better put on veils, and we’ll go right away to London. It’s the best place to hide, as my Jo-si-ah knows with the people who don’t pay him. Yes, that’s best. I’ll go with you.”“You will go with us, Mrs Barclay?”“Of course, I shall, my dear, and stay with you till you’re out of your trouble, and Jo-si-ah has finished the business. Did you think I was a fine-weather friend?”Claire could not speak; her kisses and clinging arms spoke her thanks.“Yes, that’s as far as I can see it, and we must be quick.”She rose to go to the bell.“What are you going to do?” cried Claire, in alarm.“Ring for Jo-si-ah, and to send our Joseph to book three seats for the coach.”“But Mr Barclay? Must you tell him—now?” faltered Claire.“Why, of course, my dear, or we may be too late. Do you know that some one else is evidently making plans?”“What do you mean?” cried Claire excitedly.“We know a great deal here, my dear. My husband has to keep an eye upon the slippery people who borrow money of him; and there was a hint brought here to-day that a certain gentleman was going to elope to-night with a certain lady, and the idea was that you were the lady. We know it was Sir Harry Payne.”Claire caught at her friend’s arm as she went on.“But I said ‘No;’ it is only a miserable scandal, based upon that wretched business at your house. ‘It’s Mrs Burnett,’ I said, ‘if it’s anyone.’ Claire, my dear, she is in this dreadful fix, and she is going off to-night with that fop to escape from it.”Claire’s lips parted as she looked at the speaker in horror, realising it all now, and reading May’s excuse to gain time.For a moment the deceit and cruelty of the act seemed too horrible; but she was now thoroughly realising the nature of her sister, and was so agitated that she felt almost paralysed as she stood gazing straight before her.“I cannot believe it, Mrs Barclay,” she said at last. “It is too terrible. My poor sister would never be so base.”“Go at once, my dear. Stand no nonsense with the little thing. I’ll settle it all with my Jo-si-ah. You bring her here.”Claire was white as ashes now, as she caught Mrs Barclay’s hands and kissed them.“No, no, my dear; not my hands. There, go, and heaven bless you. We’ll help you through it, never fear.”She folded Claire in her arms for a moment, and then hurried with her downstairs, and let her out.“One moment, my dear,” she whispered, detaining her, to thrust her purse in her hand. “Stop for nothing. Bring her here; drag her if she says she will not come. Say anything, but bring her here.”“Ah!” sighed Mrs Barclay, as she watched Claire disappear down the street, and then closed the door. “Now for Jo-si-ah.”

Claire winced again, and involuntarily glanced at the door, repenting that she had come, as she saw Mrs Barclay frown and make a series of grimaces at her lord, all of which were peculiar enough to a stranger, but which simply meant to the initiated: “Go away and leave us together: I can manage her better than I could if you stayed here.”

Barclay comprehended from old experience all that his wife meant to signify, and, making some excuse, he shortly left the room.

“There, that’s right, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay warmly. “Men are such a nuisance when you want to have a nice cosy chat. Why dear, dear, dear, how white you look. Your bonny face oughtn’t to be like that. You’ve been wherriting yourself over something. It isn’t money, is it?”

“No, Mrs Barclay, we seem to have been a little better off lately.”

“But you are in trouble, my darling? Now don’t say you aren’t, but speak out plain to me. Oh, I wish I could make you believe that I am a very, very true friend, and that I want to help you. There, I know: you’ve been falling out with Cora Dean.”

Mrs Barclay prided herself on this as being a master stroke of policy to draw Claire out and make her ready to confide in her; but Claire shook her head and smiled sadly.

“No,” she said dreamily, “I am not in trouble about that. I thought I would call and see you to-day. There, I must go now.”

“Is that all?” said Mrs Barclay in a disappointed tone. “Why, I was in hopes that you were over head and ears in trouble, and had come to me for help.”

“Mrs Barclay!” exclaimed Claire.

“No, no, no, my dear. What a stupid old woman I am! I didn’t mean that, but if you were in trouble, I hoped that, seeing how much you are alone, you had come to me for help and advice.”

Claire’s face worked and her lips quivered. She vainly tried to speak, and finally, utterly broken-down with the agony of her encounters on the previous day with Louis and her sister, with the following sleepless night and the despair of the present day, during which she had been vainly striving to see some way out of the difficulty, she threw herself upon the breast offered to receive her troubles and sobbed aloud.

“I knew—I knew,” whispered Mrs Barclay, soothing and caressing the poor girl by turns. “I knew as well as if some one had told me that you were in trouble and wanted help. There, there, cry away, my darling. Have a good long patient one, and don’t hurry yourself. You’ll be a world better afterwards; and if you like then to tell me about it, why, you see, you can, and if you don’t like to, why, there’s no harm done.”

Even if the amiable plump old soul had said nothing more than the first sympathising words, Claire’s emotion, so long pent up, would now have had its vent, the tears seeming to relieve her overburdened brain as she clung to her hostess, listening, and yet only half hearing her whispered words.

It was perhaps as well, for with all its true-heartedness there was a comic side to Mrs Barclay’s well-meant sympathy; and some of her adjurations to “cry away,” and not to “stop it,” and the like, would have provoked a smile from anyone who had been present at the scene.

“There, there, there, then, that’s better,” cried Mrs Barclay, beaming in Claire’s face and kissing her tenderly. “Now you’ll be comfortable again; and now, my dear child, we’re all alone, and if you like to make a confidant of me, you shall find you can trust me as much as my Jo-si-ah can. But don’t you think I’m a scandal-loving old busybody, my dear, for I don’t ask you to tell me anything.”

“You are always so good to me, Mrs Barclay,” sighed Claire, clinging to the ample breast.

“Oh, nonsense, my dear. I only offer to be your confidant, so as to help you in your trouble. For you are in trouble, my dear—dreadful trouble, and it hurts me to see you so—hurts me, my dear, more than you think for, so what I say is—If it does you good to come and sit with me and be comforted by having a good cry over me, just as if you were my little girl, why you shall, and I shan’t ask you a single question; but if you think such a silly stout old woman can do you any good by giving you advice, or—now don’t be offended—finding you money; or by asking my Jo-si-ah what to do—”

“Mrs Barclay!” cried Claire in tones of dismay, and with her cheeks flushing.

“Ah, that’s the way of the world, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay with a quiet contented smile, as she drew Claire’s head back upon her shoulder, and stroked and patted her cheek. “You don’t know my Jo-si-ah. He seems a rough harsh-spoken old money-grubber, but he’s the tenderest-hearted, most generous man that ever lived. There, there, you needn’t speak. I was only going to finish and say Claire Denville has two true friends here in this house; and as for me, here I am, ready to help you in any way, for I believe in you, my dear, in spite of everything that has been said, as being as good a girl as ever breathed.”

“Heaven bless you!” exclaimed Claire, nestling to her; “you are a true friend, and I will tell you all my trouble.”

“That’s right, my dear, so you shall, and two heads are better than one. Shall I help you?”

“Oh, yes, yes, Mrs Barclay, if you can. I am so helpless, so weak with this new trouble, I don’t know what to do.”

“No; and you’ll be driving yourself half crazy, my dear,” whispered Mrs Barclay. “Why, I know as well as can be what it is.”

“You know, Mrs Barclay?”

“To be sure I do, my dear. Now, why not let me ask him here some day, and just talk the matter quietly over with him?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Claire; “but he is so impetuous, and the situation is so horrible.”

“Not a bit of it, my dear. Of course, he is impetuous. Enough, to make him, hearing such things as he does; but just you let me get him here some day and have a chat with him, and then you see him, and try and understand each other. Never mind about the money, my dear: be poor and happy. Love’s better than riches; and the happiness enjoyed by two good people who really care for each other is—well, I don’t want to be single.”

“Mrs Barclay! What do you mean?”

“Why, that with all his doubts and distances, Richard Linnell worships you as much as you love him.”

“Oh, hush, hush, hush!” cried Claire piteously. “Don’t talk about that, Mrs Barclay. It is impossible.”

“It isn’t, my dear, and that’s flat. You’re being cruel to him, and more cruel to your own dear self. Come, now, try and be advised.”

“Mrs Barclay,” cried Claire wildly, “you don’t know. My trouble now is far greater than anything about self;” and, clinging to the only friend she seemed to have, she told her all.

Mrs Barclay sat with wide-open eyes to the very end, and then, in the midst of the terrible silence, she took out a violently-scented pocket-handkerchief, and wiped the dew from her brow, as she said softly:

“Oh, my gracious me!”

“It has driven me nearly mad,” cried Claire, wringing her hands, “and while I stay here something terrible may have happened. I must go—I must go.”

“No, no; sit still, my dear,” cried Mrs Barclay, drawing her back to her side, and speaking in a quick, businesslike way. “I was quite knocked over by what you said. My poor, dear child! Is there to be no end to your troubles? But there, we mustn’t talk nonsense, but act sensibly. This is like a smash—a sort of bankruptcy, only it’s what Jo-si-ah would call social and not monetary. There, there, it’s a terrible business, but I’m glad you’ve had the courage to tell me. Oh, my dear, I’ve always said to Jo-si-ah that she was a wicked little thing who was getting you into trouble. But let that go. Now, then, what to do first? Your poor father don’t know a word?”

“I have not dared to tell him.”

“No, and you’ve been screening her, and taking care of that little one, and—dear—dear—what a world this is! Tut—tut—tut! I am doing nothing but talk. Now, look here, Claire; the first thing that strikes me is that she must be got away—right away—for the present.”

“Yes, yes; but how?” cried Claire.

“Jo-si-ah shall settle that.”

“Mr Barclay!” cried Claire in terror.

“To be sure, my dear. We want a strong man to act in a case like this. Your sister must be got away somewhere, and you must go with her. You had both better go to-night. No one shall know where you are but Jo-si-ah and me, and you can take care of her until Jo-si-ah has told your father all about it.”

“Yes,” sighed Claire, as her companion’s calm, businesslike manner impressed her.

“If we tell him first he will do no good, poor man, only be horribly upset, and there’ll be no end of scenes, and no business done.”

Claire acquiesced with a look.

“Then Jo-si-ah can settle it all with your father and Mr Burnett, and this Mr Gravani, what is to be done in a businesslike way. There, there, let me finish. The weak little thing has got herself into this dreadful tangle, and what we have to do is to get her out the best way we can. It’s of no use to be sentimental and sit down and cry; we must act like women.”

Claire looked at her in admiration, astounded by her friend’s calm, businesslike manner.

“Now, perhaps, my dear, my Jo-si-ah may upset all my plans by proposing something better; but, as far as I see it now, you had better go straight off to your sister May—it will soon be dusk—and bring her here. I’ll be ready and waiting, and I’ll go with you both to the coach. You had better put on veils, and we’ll go right away to London. It’s the best place to hide, as my Jo-si-ah knows with the people who don’t pay him. Yes, that’s best. I’ll go with you.”

“You will go with us, Mrs Barclay?”

“Of course, I shall, my dear, and stay with you till you’re out of your trouble, and Jo-si-ah has finished the business. Did you think I was a fine-weather friend?”

Claire could not speak; her kisses and clinging arms spoke her thanks.

“Yes, that’s as far as I can see it, and we must be quick.”

She rose to go to the bell.

“What are you going to do?” cried Claire, in alarm.

“Ring for Jo-si-ah, and to send our Joseph to book three seats for the coach.”

“But Mr Barclay? Must you tell him—now?” faltered Claire.

“Why, of course, my dear, or we may be too late. Do you know that some one else is evidently making plans?”

“What do you mean?” cried Claire excitedly.

“We know a great deal here, my dear. My husband has to keep an eye upon the slippery people who borrow money of him; and there was a hint brought here to-day that a certain gentleman was going to elope to-night with a certain lady, and the idea was that you were the lady. We know it was Sir Harry Payne.”

Claire caught at her friend’s arm as she went on.

“But I said ‘No;’ it is only a miserable scandal, based upon that wretched business at your house. ‘It’s Mrs Burnett,’ I said, ‘if it’s anyone.’ Claire, my dear, she is in this dreadful fix, and she is going off to-night with that fop to escape from it.”

Claire’s lips parted as she looked at the speaker in horror, realising it all now, and reading May’s excuse to gain time.

For a moment the deceit and cruelty of the act seemed too horrible; but she was now thoroughly realising the nature of her sister, and was so agitated that she felt almost paralysed as she stood gazing straight before her.

“I cannot believe it, Mrs Barclay,” she said at last. “It is too terrible. My poor sister would never be so base.”

“Go at once, my dear. Stand no nonsense with the little thing. I’ll settle it all with my Jo-si-ah. You bring her here.”

Claire was white as ashes now, as she caught Mrs Barclay’s hands and kissed them.

“No, no, my dear; not my hands. There, go, and heaven bless you. We’ll help you through it, never fear.”

She folded Claire in her arms for a moment, and then hurried with her downstairs, and let her out.

“One moment, my dear,” she whispered, detaining her, to thrust her purse in her hand. “Stop for nothing. Bring her here; drag her if she says she will not come. Say anything, but bring her here.”

“Ah!” sighed Mrs Barclay, as she watched Claire disappear down the street, and then closed the door. “Now for Jo-si-ah.”

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