Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.At the Card-Table.“Friends?” Richard Linnell was saying, as he stood looking earnestly at Claire. “Nothing more?”“No,” she said, in a low, sad voice; “always, come what may, your grateful friend.”She turned to her sister, who was watching her, and met her with:“Claire dear, you’re going mad. That man hasn’t a penny.”“Well?” said Claire gravely. “And you are encouraging him.”“As you are encouraging Sir Harry Payne? No, May; you are mistaken.”“I declare if you are going to insult me I will not stay,” cried May, turning scarlet. “It is disgraceful. It is cruel. If I could only find Frank—”Just then a loud burst of angry voices came from one of the card-tables. It was eleven o’clock; there had been refreshments; the room was very hot, and the play, for ladies, high; and now the voice of the Master of the Ceremonies was heard in protest.“Ladies—ladies—I beg—I must request—”“Order my carriage directly, Sir Matthew. It serves me right for coming to such a place,” cried Lady Drelincourt.“Yes; you had no business here,” cried Mrs Barclay.“And mixing with such low people,” cried Lady Drelincourt.“Low people? Better be low than not honest.”“Oh! oh!—Denville, are you going to allow this insult to my face—from such a woman as that?” cried Lady Drelincourt.“Hush, ladies! Pray—pray!” cried Denville.“Hold your tongue and come away, old lady,” said Barclay, in a croaking whisper.“I won’t, Jo-si-ah; not till she pays me my four guineas, I declare,” cried Mrs Barclay aloud. “She’s been doing nothing but cheat and rook ever since I sat down to play.”“Sir Matthew Bray, my carriage.”“And gone on shameful, and pretending it was all mistakes. I declare it’s abominable.”“Ladies—ladies!”“Will you be quiet, old girl? Hold your tongue.”“I will not, Josiah,” cried Mrs Barclay, who, like many good-tempered, amiable women, took a great deal to make her angry, but when she was really excited, was not to be suppressed. “What I say is—”“Oh—oh—oh—oh!”A series of wild, hysterical cries from a couch in the front room, and Claire ran gladly from the painful scene to where her sister was in a violent hysterical fit, which, with the exit of Lady Drelincourt on Sir Matthew Bray’s arm, after a withering glance round, quite stopped Mrs Barclay’s vituperative attack.“Think of that now,” cried the latter lady. “Me again. I ought not to come out.”“That you oughtn’t,” growled Barclay. “Next thing will be you’ve lost that bracelet.”“Nonsense, Josiah. Let me help you, Claire dear. I am so sorry, but that wretched cheating old woman was either kicking me under the table in mistake for that Sir Matthew Bray, or else cheating. I am so—so sorry. It’s ’sterricks, that’s what it is.”“Yes, that’s what it is,” said Mrs Dean; “and if I might say a word, I should tell Mr Denville that he couldn’t do better than behave like Lady Macbeth.”“Oh, mother!” whispered Cora impatiently.“Now what’s the good of you ‘oh mothering’ me, my dear? What could be better than for Mr Denville to say to his guests, ‘Don’t be on the order of your going, but go at once’?”“Miss Dean,” said Sir Harry, “your mamma speaks the words of wisdom. It is the wisest thing. Come, gentlemen, we can be of no service here. By Jove, she does it to perfection.”Mrs Dean’s words broke up the party, and the visitors had nearly all gone, when, in answer to cold bathing and smelling-salts, Mrs Burnett began to recover; and just then Frank Burnett, who had been, no one but Isaac knew where, came up to make a fresh scene as he threw himself upon his knees beside the couch, imploring in maudlin tones his darling May to speak and tell him what it was.“Oh, my head, my head!” sobbed the stricken wife. “My head, my head!”“You’d better let her be, Mr Burnett, sir,” said Mrs Barclay. “It’s my belief that quiet’s the thing.”“Yes, and we’ll go,” said Mrs Dean. “Good-night, Miss Denville. Good-night, Mr Denville, and thank you so much. Come, Cora, love.”Cora Dean glanced at Richard Linnell and Mellersh as she advanced to say good-night; for they were going to the same house, and it was possible, as the distance was short, that they would see them home.“Good-night, Mr Denville,” she said.“We will say good-night too,” said Mellersh, “unless we can be of any use.”“Oh, no,” said their host. “She will soon be better—a mere trifle.”“Yes, please let me be,” said Mrs Burnett. “I shall soon be better now.”“Good-night,” said Cora, holding out her hand to the woman she told herself she hated with all her heart.But it was in a spirit of triumph, for Richard Linnell was going to walk home with her.“Good-night,” said Claire, smiling in her face with a calm ingenuous look. “I am glad we have met.”How it came about they neither of them knew, but it was Claire’s seeking; she was suffering so from that heart hunger—that painful searching for the love and sympathy of some woman of her age, while Cora Dean’s handsome face was so near to her, and she kissed her as one sister might another.“Well, I never,” muttered Mrs Dean as she went down the stairs. “Think of that, and you as don’t like her.”The next minute Cora Dean and her mother were walking along the Parade with Linnell and Mellersh on either side, chatting about the evening.“One cigar, Dick, before we go to bed,” said Mellersh, when they had been sitting together in his room for some time, after parting from their upstairs neighbours.“I’m willing,” said Linnell, “for I feel as if I could not sleep.”They lit their cigars, let themselves out, strolled down to the edge of the water, walked along by it in front of the Parade, and went upon the cliff again, to go back silently along the path till they neared the house where they had passed the evening, walking very slowly, and ending by stopping to lean over the cliff rails and gaze out to sea.How long this had lasted they did not know, but all at once, as Mellersh turned, he gripped Richard Linnell by the arm and pointed.Linnell saw it at the same moment: the figure of a man climbing over a balcony; and as they watched they could just see the gleam of one of the windows as it was evidently opened and he passed in.“Dick!” whispered Mellersh; “what does that mean?”“The same as the night that poor old woman was slain. Quick! Come on!”“Stop!” said Mellersh. “Here’s another!”
“Friends?” Richard Linnell was saying, as he stood looking earnestly at Claire. “Nothing more?”
“No,” she said, in a low, sad voice; “always, come what may, your grateful friend.”
She turned to her sister, who was watching her, and met her with:
“Claire dear, you’re going mad. That man hasn’t a penny.”
“Well?” said Claire gravely. “And you are encouraging him.”
“As you are encouraging Sir Harry Payne? No, May; you are mistaken.”
“I declare if you are going to insult me I will not stay,” cried May, turning scarlet. “It is disgraceful. It is cruel. If I could only find Frank—”
Just then a loud burst of angry voices came from one of the card-tables. It was eleven o’clock; there had been refreshments; the room was very hot, and the play, for ladies, high; and now the voice of the Master of the Ceremonies was heard in protest.
“Ladies—ladies—I beg—I must request—”
“Order my carriage directly, Sir Matthew. It serves me right for coming to such a place,” cried Lady Drelincourt.
“Yes; you had no business here,” cried Mrs Barclay.
“And mixing with such low people,” cried Lady Drelincourt.
“Low people? Better be low than not honest.”
“Oh! oh!—Denville, are you going to allow this insult to my face—from such a woman as that?” cried Lady Drelincourt.
“Hush, ladies! Pray—pray!” cried Denville.
“Hold your tongue and come away, old lady,” said Barclay, in a croaking whisper.
“I won’t, Jo-si-ah; not till she pays me my four guineas, I declare,” cried Mrs Barclay aloud. “She’s been doing nothing but cheat and rook ever since I sat down to play.”
“Sir Matthew Bray, my carriage.”
“And gone on shameful, and pretending it was all mistakes. I declare it’s abominable.”
“Ladies—ladies!”
“Will you be quiet, old girl? Hold your tongue.”
“I will not, Josiah,” cried Mrs Barclay, who, like many good-tempered, amiable women, took a great deal to make her angry, but when she was really excited, was not to be suppressed. “What I say is—”
“Oh—oh—oh—oh!”
A series of wild, hysterical cries from a couch in the front room, and Claire ran gladly from the painful scene to where her sister was in a violent hysterical fit, which, with the exit of Lady Drelincourt on Sir Matthew Bray’s arm, after a withering glance round, quite stopped Mrs Barclay’s vituperative attack.
“Think of that now,” cried the latter lady. “Me again. I ought not to come out.”
“That you oughtn’t,” growled Barclay. “Next thing will be you’ve lost that bracelet.”
“Nonsense, Josiah. Let me help you, Claire dear. I am so sorry, but that wretched cheating old woman was either kicking me under the table in mistake for that Sir Matthew Bray, or else cheating. I am so—so sorry. It’s ’sterricks, that’s what it is.”
“Yes, that’s what it is,” said Mrs Dean; “and if I might say a word, I should tell Mr Denville that he couldn’t do better than behave like Lady Macbeth.”
“Oh, mother!” whispered Cora impatiently.
“Now what’s the good of you ‘oh mothering’ me, my dear? What could be better than for Mr Denville to say to his guests, ‘Don’t be on the order of your going, but go at once’?”
“Miss Dean,” said Sir Harry, “your mamma speaks the words of wisdom. It is the wisest thing. Come, gentlemen, we can be of no service here. By Jove, she does it to perfection.”
Mrs Dean’s words broke up the party, and the visitors had nearly all gone, when, in answer to cold bathing and smelling-salts, Mrs Burnett began to recover; and just then Frank Burnett, who had been, no one but Isaac knew where, came up to make a fresh scene as he threw himself upon his knees beside the couch, imploring in maudlin tones his darling May to speak and tell him what it was.
“Oh, my head, my head!” sobbed the stricken wife. “My head, my head!”
“You’d better let her be, Mr Burnett, sir,” said Mrs Barclay. “It’s my belief that quiet’s the thing.”
“Yes, and we’ll go,” said Mrs Dean. “Good-night, Miss Denville. Good-night, Mr Denville, and thank you so much. Come, Cora, love.”
Cora Dean glanced at Richard Linnell and Mellersh as she advanced to say good-night; for they were going to the same house, and it was possible, as the distance was short, that they would see them home.
“Good-night, Mr Denville,” she said.
“We will say good-night too,” said Mellersh, “unless we can be of any use.”
“Oh, no,” said their host. “She will soon be better—a mere trifle.”
“Yes, please let me be,” said Mrs Burnett. “I shall soon be better now.”
“Good-night,” said Cora, holding out her hand to the woman she told herself she hated with all her heart.
But it was in a spirit of triumph, for Richard Linnell was going to walk home with her.
“Good-night,” said Claire, smiling in her face with a calm ingenuous look. “I am glad we have met.”
How it came about they neither of them knew, but it was Claire’s seeking; she was suffering so from that heart hunger—that painful searching for the love and sympathy of some woman of her age, while Cora Dean’s handsome face was so near to her, and she kissed her as one sister might another.
“Well, I never,” muttered Mrs Dean as she went down the stairs. “Think of that, and you as don’t like her.”
The next minute Cora Dean and her mother were walking along the Parade with Linnell and Mellersh on either side, chatting about the evening.
“One cigar, Dick, before we go to bed,” said Mellersh, when they had been sitting together in his room for some time, after parting from their upstairs neighbours.
“I’m willing,” said Linnell, “for I feel as if I could not sleep.”
They lit their cigars, let themselves out, strolled down to the edge of the water, walked along by it in front of the Parade, and went upon the cliff again, to go back silently along the path till they neared the house where they had passed the evening, walking very slowly, and ending by stopping to lean over the cliff rails and gaze out to sea.
How long this had lasted they did not know, but all at once, as Mellersh turned, he gripped Richard Linnell by the arm and pointed.
Linnell saw it at the same moment: the figure of a man climbing over a balcony; and as they watched they could just see the gleam of one of the windows as it was evidently opened and he passed in.
“Dick!” whispered Mellersh; “what does that mean?”
“The same as the night that poor old woman was slain. Quick! Come on!”
“Stop!” said Mellersh. “Here’s another!”
Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.Mrs Burnett’s Seizure.“I think we had better go too,” said Mrs Barclay at last. “But are you quite sure we can do no good?”“No: indeed no, Mrs Barclay; and I am so much obliged to you for staying,” replied Claire.“It was the least I could do, my dear, after making all that miserable rumpus about a few paltry guineas. Your papa will never forgive me.”“Indeed, there is nothing to forgive, my dear Mrs Barclay. It was natural that you should be indignant,” said Denville politely.“Thank you very much for saying so, but it’s always the way if I go out, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s something else wrong,” cried Mrs Barclay piteously. “I’m a most unfortunate creature.”“There, put on your things and let’s go,” said Barclay huffily. “Give me that case. I’ll carry it now, or you’ll lose that.”Mrs Barclay began to thrust her hand into her pocket, and Denville was talking to his son-in-law at the other end of the room, while Claire bent over and kissed her sister.“Are you better now, dear?”“No-o! Oh, my head!—my head!”“My darling!” cried Burnett, coming back and bringing with him a strong smell of cigars and bad wine.“Don’t, Frank. Don’t you see how ill I am?”“Yes, yes, my own, but the carriage is waiting. Let me help you down, and let’s go home.”“Oh! My gracious! Oh!” shrieked Mrs Barclay.“Oh!—oh!—oh!—oh!” sobbed May Burnett, again in a worse fit than before.“Now you’ve done it again,” cried Barclay angrily. “There never was such a woman. Here, come along home.”“The case—the bracelet, Jo-si-ah!”“Well. What about it?”“I knew something would happen. I felt it coming.”“Stop! Where’s that diamond bracelet, woman?”“It’s gone, Jo-si-ah. I’ve lost it. It’s gone.”“A two hundred pound bracelet, and gone!” roared Barclay. “Eh, what? Thank ye, Denville. How did you come by it?”Denville, who was standing in a graceful attitude, smilingly offering the case, explained that Mrs Barclay had let it fall beneath the seat when she thought that she was placing it in her pocket.“Oh, Mr Denville,” cried Mrs Barclay, “youarea dear good man!”“Denville! Thank ye!” said Barclay, shaking hands. “You might have stuck to that, and I should have been no wiser. I shan’t forget this. Good-night, old man, good-night.”“Coarse, but very kindly,” said Denville, after Mrs Barclay had made Claire’s face wet with tears and kisses, and he had seen the pair to the door.“Yes,” said Burnett; “they’re a rough couple. Come, May, no nonsense. Get up. I’m not going to have my horses kept waiting all night.”May made an effort to rise, but sank back, sobbing hysterically:“My head!—my head!”“Here, give her some brandy, Claire,” cried Burnett.“No, no, no. It makes it worse.”“Well, it will be better to-morrow. Come along.”“No, no, I cannot bear it. Oh, my head!—my head!”“Let me bathe it with the eau de Cologne,” said Claire tenderly.“No, no. I cannot bear it.”“Then come home,” cried Burnett.“No, no,” moaned his wife. “I’m so ill—so ill. Papa—couldn’t I stay here to-night—my own old little room?”“Yes, yes, my darling,” said Denville tenderly.“I am so ill, papa. My head throbs so if I move it.”“Let her stay, Frank,” said Claire sympathisingly.“Not I. What! go home without her? I’ll be hanged if I do!” cried Burnett pettishly. “She’ll be all right as soon as she gets out into the air. Now, May, jump up.”He caught her by the arm, but May uttered a wail.“Frank, dear, you are cruel,” said Claire.“You mind your own business,” said the irritable little fellow sharply. “She has got to come home with me.”“I—I—I can’t, Frank. I am so ill.”“Nonsense! Sick headache. I often have them. You’ve taken too much wine.”“She has not had any, Frank,” said Claire indignantly.“Then she ought to have had some. That’s the reason. You hold your tongue. Now, madam, jump up.”The MC had stood looking on, with his face working, but saying no word till now that Burnett caught his wife roughly by both hands and tried to pull her to her feet.“Stop!” he cried firmly. “Really, Frank Burnett, you are ungentle in the extreme.”“Here, I know what I’m doing,” he retorted. “She’s my wife.”“And she’s my daughter, sir,” cried Denville haughtily; “and while I am by no half-tipsy man shall insult her.”“Half-tipsy? Who’s half-tipsy? This is the result of coming here, sir.”“Where I have been on thorns for the last two hours, lest my guests should see what a state you were in.”“State? What do you mean?”“I will not expose you more before your young wife,” said Denville quietly. “We are both angry, and had better say good-night. May, do you feel well enough to go home?”“No; oh no, papa.”“You hear, Frank Burnett. Claire, you can easily get her bedroom ready.”“Look here, I shan’t stay,” cried Burnett. “I shan’t stay here.”“Well, go home then. We will take care of her, you may depend.”“It’s all nonsense. She shall come home.”“My child is not well enough to go home,” retorted Denville.“Frank dear, don’t be obstinate, for May’s sake,” said Claire. “There, go home, dear. I’ll get her to bed soon, and she’ll be better in the morning.”Burnett looked from one to the other with his teeth set, and was about to burst out into an angry tirade; but he met the firm, cold gaze of his father-in-law fixed upon him, and it was irresistible. It literally looked him down; and, with an impatient curse, he left the house and banged the door.Directly after they heard the rattle of carriage-wheels, and May uttered a sigh of relief as she watched the MC walk round the room extinguishing the candles.“Oh, papa dear,” she sobbed, “he does behave so badly to me!”“My child!” said Denville sadly, as he bent down and kissed her. “You are weary and excited to-night. Pray say no more.”He left the room, and went downstairs to bid the servants leave everything till morning, and go to bed; and as the door closed Claire knelt down beside her sister, and laid her hand upon her burning forehead.“That’s nice,” sighed May; and then she sat up suddenly, glanced round, and flung her arms round Claire’s neck to hide her face in her breast, and burst into a passionate fit of sobbing.“Oh, hush, hush, May, my darling,” whispered Claire tenderly, as she kissed and caressed the pretty little head, which was jerked up again in an angry, spasmodic way.“You saw—you heard,” she cried, with her face flushed and her eyes flashing, as she talked in a quick, low, excited manner. “You blamed me for loving poor Louis. Why, he was all that was gentle and kind. He loved me in his fierce Italian way, and he was so jealous that he would have killed me if I had given him cause. But so tender and loving; while this nasty, hateful little Frank—”“May: oh, hush!”“I won’t hush. I hate him. I despise him. A mean, shabby, spiteful little wretch! You saw him to-night. He pinched me, and wrung my wrists. He often hurts me.”“May!—May!”“It’s true. He strikes me, too; and I tell you I hate him.”“May! Your husband, whom you have sworn to honour and love!”“And I don’t either, and I never shall,” cried May sharply.“You must, you must, May, my darling. There, there; you are flushed and excited with your head being so bad, and Frank was not so gentle as he might have been. He was vexed because you had turned ill.”“Nasty, fretful wretch!”“May!”“I don’t care; he is,” cried the little foolish thing, looking wonderfully like an angry child as she spoke.“Hush! I will not let you speak of your husband like that, May.”“Husband! A contemptible little tipsy wretch who bought me of papa because I was pretty. I loathe him, I tell you. Papa ought to have been ashamed of himself for selling me as he did.”“May! May! little sister!” said Claire, weeping silently as she drew her baby head to her bosom, and tried to stay the flow of bitter words that came.“Horses and carriages, and servants and dresses, and nothing else but misery. I tell you—I don’t care! If he ever beats me again I’ll run away from him, that I will.”“No, no, little passionate, tender heart,” said Claire lovingly. “You are ill and troubled to-night. There, there. You shall sleep quietly to-night under the old roof. Why, May dear, it seems like the dear old times, and you are the little girl again whom I am going to undress and put to bed. There, you are better now.”“Old times? What, of misery and poverty and wretchedness, and having servants that you cannot pay, and struggling to keep up appearances, and all for what?”“Oh, hush, hush, little May!” said Claire, holding her to her breast, and half sadly, half playfully, rocking herself to and fro.“You don’t know what trouble is. You don’t know what it is to have your tenderest feelings torn. You never knew what it was to suffer as I have. I hate him.”She could not see Claire’s ghastly face, nor the agonised twitching of the nerves about her lips which her sister was striving to master.“No one knows what I have had to suffer,” she went on; “and it’s too hard—it’s too hard to bear. No one loves me, no one cares for me. It’s all misery and wretchedness, and—and I wish I was dead.”“No, no, no, darling,” said Claire, as she drew the sobbing little thing closer to her breast; “don’t say that. I love you dearly, my own sister, and it breaks my heart to see you unhappy. But there, there, you are so weary and ill to-night that it makes everything look so black. I suffer too, darling, for your sake—for all our sakes, and now I will not scold you.”“Scold me?” cried May, in affright.“No, not one word; only pray to you to be careful of your dear, sweet little self. My darling, I am so proud of my beautiful little sister. You will not be frivolous again, and give me so much pain?”“N-no,” sighed May, with her face buried in her sister’s breast.“Frank—”“Don’t—don’t speak of him.”“Yes, yes; he is your husband, and you must try to win him over to you by gentleness, instead of being a little angry tyrant.”“Clairy!”“Yes, but you can be,” said Claire playfully, as she pressed her lips upon the soft, flossy hair. “I can remember how these little hands used to beat at me, and the little tearful eyes flash anger at me in the old times.”Just then Denville entered the room softly, with a weary, dissatisfied air; but, as he stood in the doorway unnoticed, his whole aspect changed, and the tears stood in his eyes.“God bless them!” he said fervently; and then, as he saw May raise her head, and look excitedly in her sister’s face, he stepped forward.“Well, little bird,” he said, bending down to kiss May’s forehead, “back once more in the old nest?”Claire looked searchingly at him as she rose from her knees; and then she sighed as she saw May fling herself into her father’s arms.“There, there, I shall make the head ache again,” he said, with a calm, restful smile upon his lips, such as Claire had not seen for months.“How he loves her!” she thought; and then another idea flashed through her breast. Suppose May knew!“Claire, my child, is her room ready?”“Yes; Morton’s room is prepared in case he came back. She will sleep there unless—May, will you come to me?”“Yes, yes,” cried the little girlish thing, in a quick excited way. “No, no; I’ll be alone. Let me go now—at once.”Claire fetched and gave her a lighted candle, finding her clinging passionately to her father, looking, as it seemed to the thoughtful woman, like some frightened child.She kissed him hastily, and seemed to snatch the candle from her sister’s hand.“Good-night, Claire,” she cried, holding up her face, and clinging tightly to her sister’s arm.“I am going with you, dear—as I used to in the old times,” said Claire, smiling; and they left the room together.“Without one word to me,” said Denville, as he stood with clasped hands gazing at the door. “Well, why should I be surprised? What must I be in her sight? Her father! Yes, but a monster without pity—utterly vile.”He heaved a piteous sigh, as he sank into a chair.“No,” he said to himself, “I will not influence her in any way. I will not stir. It would be too cruel. But if—if she should lean towards him—who knows?—women have accepted the wealth and position such as he offers. No, I will not stir.”He sighed again, walked to the drawing-room window to see that the bar was across the shutter; and, this done, he turned hastily and gazed back into the room that had been Lady Teigne’s chamber, and as he did so the dew stood upon his forehead, for he seemed to see the bed with its dragged curtains, the empty casket on the floor, and by it the knife that he had picked up and hidden in his breast.Yes, there it all was, and Claire standing gazing at him with that horrified look of suspicion in her beautiful face, as the thought came which had placed an icy barrier between them ever since. Yes, there she was, staring at him so wildly, and it was like a horrible nightmare, and—“Father—are you ill?”“Claire! Is it you? No, no; nothing the matter. Tired; wearied out. So long and anxious an evening. Good-night!”She had come in to find him staring back into that room in a half cataleptic state; and the sight of his ghastly face brought all back to her. For a few moments she could not move, but at last, by an effort, she spoke, and he seemed to be snatched back by her voice into life and action.“Good-night, father,” she said, trembling as she read the agonies of a conscious-stricken soul in his countenance, and she was moving towards the door, when, with an agonised cry, he turned to her.“Claire, my child, must it be always so?” he cried, as he clasped his hands towards her as if in prayer.“Father!” she said, in a voice almost inaudible from emotion.“Claire, my child,” he moaned, as he sank upon his knees before her: “you do not know the burden I have to bear.”She did what she had not done for months, as she stood trembling before him; laid one hand upon his head, while her lips parted as if to speak, but they only quivered and no words came.At last, with a sobbing cry, she flung herself upon his neck, and he clasped her in his arms.“Not to me, father,” she sobbed, “not to me; I am not your judge.”“No,” he said softly, as he reverently kissed her brow; “you are not my judge.”His lips parted to speak again, but he shook his head, while a sad smile came into and brightened his countenance.“The load is lighter, Claire,” he said softly. “No, you are not my judge. If you were you would not condemn me unheard, and I cannot—dare not speak.”He led her towards the door, and stood watching her as she passed upstairs and out of sight, turning her face to him once before she closed the door.“The sweet pure angel and good genius of my home,” he said softly, with bent head, and with a calmer, more restful look in his countenance he went slowly to his own room.All was soon dark and silent in the house so lately busy with the noise and buzz of many guests. Five minutes had not elapsed when the door was softly pushed open, and a slight little figure entered, and crossed to the window.The noise made was very slight, as the swinging bar across the shutters was lifted and lowered, one of the shutters folded back, the fastening raised, and the window pushed ajar.The figure stood in the semi-darkness in the attitude of one listening, and then drew back with a peculiar sigh as of one drawing in breath.A couple of minutes passed, and then there was a scraping, rustling noise outside, the semi-darkness was deepened by a figure in the balcony, the window was drawn outwards, and a man passed in, whispering:“May—sweet—are you there?”A faintly uttered sigh was the response, and quick as thought the French window was closed, a step or two taken into the silent drawing-room, and May Burnett was tightly clasped in the arms of the nocturnal intruder.“My darling!”“No, no. Now one word, and you must go,” she whispered quickly. “I have done as I promised; now keep your word—to stay only one minute—say one word and go.”“And I will keep it,” he cried, “my beautiful little love, my—Damnation!”May started from his arms, for at that moment there was a thundering knock at the front door, and a violent drag at the bell.
“I think we had better go too,” said Mrs Barclay at last. “But are you quite sure we can do no good?”
“No: indeed no, Mrs Barclay; and I am so much obliged to you for staying,” replied Claire.
“It was the least I could do, my dear, after making all that miserable rumpus about a few paltry guineas. Your papa will never forgive me.”
“Indeed, there is nothing to forgive, my dear Mrs Barclay. It was natural that you should be indignant,” said Denville politely.
“Thank you very much for saying so, but it’s always the way if I go out, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s something else wrong,” cried Mrs Barclay piteously. “I’m a most unfortunate creature.”
“There, put on your things and let’s go,” said Barclay huffily. “Give me that case. I’ll carry it now, or you’ll lose that.”
Mrs Barclay began to thrust her hand into her pocket, and Denville was talking to his son-in-law at the other end of the room, while Claire bent over and kissed her sister.
“Are you better now, dear?”
“No-o! Oh, my head!—my head!”
“My darling!” cried Burnett, coming back and bringing with him a strong smell of cigars and bad wine.
“Don’t, Frank. Don’t you see how ill I am?”
“Yes, yes, my own, but the carriage is waiting. Let me help you down, and let’s go home.”
“Oh! My gracious! Oh!” shrieked Mrs Barclay.
“Oh!—oh!—oh!—oh!” sobbed May Burnett, again in a worse fit than before.
“Now you’ve done it again,” cried Barclay angrily. “There never was such a woman. Here, come along home.”
“The case—the bracelet, Jo-si-ah!”
“Well. What about it?”
“I knew something would happen. I felt it coming.”
“Stop! Where’s that diamond bracelet, woman?”
“It’s gone, Jo-si-ah. I’ve lost it. It’s gone.”
“A two hundred pound bracelet, and gone!” roared Barclay. “Eh, what? Thank ye, Denville. How did you come by it?”
Denville, who was standing in a graceful attitude, smilingly offering the case, explained that Mrs Barclay had let it fall beneath the seat when she thought that she was placing it in her pocket.
“Oh, Mr Denville,” cried Mrs Barclay, “youarea dear good man!”
“Denville! Thank ye!” said Barclay, shaking hands. “You might have stuck to that, and I should have been no wiser. I shan’t forget this. Good-night, old man, good-night.”
“Coarse, but very kindly,” said Denville, after Mrs Barclay had made Claire’s face wet with tears and kisses, and he had seen the pair to the door.
“Yes,” said Burnett; “they’re a rough couple. Come, May, no nonsense. Get up. I’m not going to have my horses kept waiting all night.”
May made an effort to rise, but sank back, sobbing hysterically:
“My head!—my head!”
“Here, give her some brandy, Claire,” cried Burnett.
“No, no, no. It makes it worse.”
“Well, it will be better to-morrow. Come along.”
“No, no, I cannot bear it. Oh, my head!—my head!”
“Let me bathe it with the eau de Cologne,” said Claire tenderly.
“No, no. I cannot bear it.”
“Then come home,” cried Burnett.
“No, no,” moaned his wife. “I’m so ill—so ill. Papa—couldn’t I stay here to-night—my own old little room?”
“Yes, yes, my darling,” said Denville tenderly.
“I am so ill, papa. My head throbs so if I move it.”
“Let her stay, Frank,” said Claire sympathisingly.
“Not I. What! go home without her? I’ll be hanged if I do!” cried Burnett pettishly. “She’ll be all right as soon as she gets out into the air. Now, May, jump up.”
He caught her by the arm, but May uttered a wail.
“Frank, dear, you are cruel,” said Claire.
“You mind your own business,” said the irritable little fellow sharply. “She has got to come home with me.”
“I—I—I can’t, Frank. I am so ill.”
“Nonsense! Sick headache. I often have them. You’ve taken too much wine.”
“She has not had any, Frank,” said Claire indignantly.
“Then she ought to have had some. That’s the reason. You hold your tongue. Now, madam, jump up.”
The MC had stood looking on, with his face working, but saying no word till now that Burnett caught his wife roughly by both hands and tried to pull her to her feet.
“Stop!” he cried firmly. “Really, Frank Burnett, you are ungentle in the extreme.”
“Here, I know what I’m doing,” he retorted. “She’s my wife.”
“And she’s my daughter, sir,” cried Denville haughtily; “and while I am by no half-tipsy man shall insult her.”
“Half-tipsy? Who’s half-tipsy? This is the result of coming here, sir.”
“Where I have been on thorns for the last two hours, lest my guests should see what a state you were in.”
“State? What do you mean?”
“I will not expose you more before your young wife,” said Denville quietly. “We are both angry, and had better say good-night. May, do you feel well enough to go home?”
“No; oh no, papa.”
“You hear, Frank Burnett. Claire, you can easily get her bedroom ready.”
“Look here, I shan’t stay,” cried Burnett. “I shan’t stay here.”
“Well, go home then. We will take care of her, you may depend.”
“It’s all nonsense. She shall come home.”
“My child is not well enough to go home,” retorted Denville.
“Frank dear, don’t be obstinate, for May’s sake,” said Claire. “There, go home, dear. I’ll get her to bed soon, and she’ll be better in the morning.”
Burnett looked from one to the other with his teeth set, and was about to burst out into an angry tirade; but he met the firm, cold gaze of his father-in-law fixed upon him, and it was irresistible. It literally looked him down; and, with an impatient curse, he left the house and banged the door.
Directly after they heard the rattle of carriage-wheels, and May uttered a sigh of relief as she watched the MC walk round the room extinguishing the candles.
“Oh, papa dear,” she sobbed, “he does behave so badly to me!”
“My child!” said Denville sadly, as he bent down and kissed her. “You are weary and excited to-night. Pray say no more.”
He left the room, and went downstairs to bid the servants leave everything till morning, and go to bed; and as the door closed Claire knelt down beside her sister, and laid her hand upon her burning forehead.
“That’s nice,” sighed May; and then she sat up suddenly, glanced round, and flung her arms round Claire’s neck to hide her face in her breast, and burst into a passionate fit of sobbing.
“Oh, hush, hush, May, my darling,” whispered Claire tenderly, as she kissed and caressed the pretty little head, which was jerked up again in an angry, spasmodic way.
“You saw—you heard,” she cried, with her face flushed and her eyes flashing, as she talked in a quick, low, excited manner. “You blamed me for loving poor Louis. Why, he was all that was gentle and kind. He loved me in his fierce Italian way, and he was so jealous that he would have killed me if I had given him cause. But so tender and loving; while this nasty, hateful little Frank—”
“May: oh, hush!”
“I won’t hush. I hate him. I despise him. A mean, shabby, spiteful little wretch! You saw him to-night. He pinched me, and wrung my wrists. He often hurts me.”
“May!—May!”
“It’s true. He strikes me, too; and I tell you I hate him.”
“May! Your husband, whom you have sworn to honour and love!”
“And I don’t either, and I never shall,” cried May sharply.
“You must, you must, May, my darling. There, there; you are flushed and excited with your head being so bad, and Frank was not so gentle as he might have been. He was vexed because you had turned ill.”
“Nasty, fretful wretch!”
“May!”
“I don’t care; he is,” cried the little foolish thing, looking wonderfully like an angry child as she spoke.
“Hush! I will not let you speak of your husband like that, May.”
“Husband! A contemptible little tipsy wretch who bought me of papa because I was pretty. I loathe him, I tell you. Papa ought to have been ashamed of himself for selling me as he did.”
“May! May! little sister!” said Claire, weeping silently as she drew her baby head to her bosom, and tried to stay the flow of bitter words that came.
“Horses and carriages, and servants and dresses, and nothing else but misery. I tell you—I don’t care! If he ever beats me again I’ll run away from him, that I will.”
“No, no, little passionate, tender heart,” said Claire lovingly. “You are ill and troubled to-night. There, there. You shall sleep quietly to-night under the old roof. Why, May dear, it seems like the dear old times, and you are the little girl again whom I am going to undress and put to bed. There, you are better now.”
“Old times? What, of misery and poverty and wretchedness, and having servants that you cannot pay, and struggling to keep up appearances, and all for what?”
“Oh, hush, hush, little May!” said Claire, holding her to her breast, and half sadly, half playfully, rocking herself to and fro.
“You don’t know what trouble is. You don’t know what it is to have your tenderest feelings torn. You never knew what it was to suffer as I have. I hate him.”
She could not see Claire’s ghastly face, nor the agonised twitching of the nerves about her lips which her sister was striving to master.
“No one knows what I have had to suffer,” she went on; “and it’s too hard—it’s too hard to bear. No one loves me, no one cares for me. It’s all misery and wretchedness, and—and I wish I was dead.”
“No, no, no, darling,” said Claire, as she drew the sobbing little thing closer to her breast; “don’t say that. I love you dearly, my own sister, and it breaks my heart to see you unhappy. But there, there, you are so weary and ill to-night that it makes everything look so black. I suffer too, darling, for your sake—for all our sakes, and now I will not scold you.”
“Scold me?” cried May, in affright.
“No, not one word; only pray to you to be careful of your dear, sweet little self. My darling, I am so proud of my beautiful little sister. You will not be frivolous again, and give me so much pain?”
“N-no,” sighed May, with her face buried in her sister’s breast.
“Frank—”
“Don’t—don’t speak of him.”
“Yes, yes; he is your husband, and you must try to win him over to you by gentleness, instead of being a little angry tyrant.”
“Clairy!”
“Yes, but you can be,” said Claire playfully, as she pressed her lips upon the soft, flossy hair. “I can remember how these little hands used to beat at me, and the little tearful eyes flash anger at me in the old times.”
Just then Denville entered the room softly, with a weary, dissatisfied air; but, as he stood in the doorway unnoticed, his whole aspect changed, and the tears stood in his eyes.
“God bless them!” he said fervently; and then, as he saw May raise her head, and look excitedly in her sister’s face, he stepped forward.
“Well, little bird,” he said, bending down to kiss May’s forehead, “back once more in the old nest?”
Claire looked searchingly at him as she rose from her knees; and then she sighed as she saw May fling herself into her father’s arms.
“There, there, I shall make the head ache again,” he said, with a calm, restful smile upon his lips, such as Claire had not seen for months.
“How he loves her!” she thought; and then another idea flashed through her breast. Suppose May knew!
“Claire, my child, is her room ready?”
“Yes; Morton’s room is prepared in case he came back. She will sleep there unless—May, will you come to me?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the little girlish thing, in a quick excited way. “No, no; I’ll be alone. Let me go now—at once.”
Claire fetched and gave her a lighted candle, finding her clinging passionately to her father, looking, as it seemed to the thoughtful woman, like some frightened child.
She kissed him hastily, and seemed to snatch the candle from her sister’s hand.
“Good-night, Claire,” she cried, holding up her face, and clinging tightly to her sister’s arm.
“I am going with you, dear—as I used to in the old times,” said Claire, smiling; and they left the room together.
“Without one word to me,” said Denville, as he stood with clasped hands gazing at the door. “Well, why should I be surprised? What must I be in her sight? Her father! Yes, but a monster without pity—utterly vile.”
He heaved a piteous sigh, as he sank into a chair.
“No,” he said to himself, “I will not influence her in any way. I will not stir. It would be too cruel. But if—if she should lean towards him—who knows?—women have accepted the wealth and position such as he offers. No, I will not stir.”
He sighed again, walked to the drawing-room window to see that the bar was across the shutter; and, this done, he turned hastily and gazed back into the room that had been Lady Teigne’s chamber, and as he did so the dew stood upon his forehead, for he seemed to see the bed with its dragged curtains, the empty casket on the floor, and by it the knife that he had picked up and hidden in his breast.
Yes, there it all was, and Claire standing gazing at him with that horrified look of suspicion in her beautiful face, as the thought came which had placed an icy barrier between them ever since. Yes, there she was, staring at him so wildly, and it was like a horrible nightmare, and—
“Father—are you ill?”
“Claire! Is it you? No, no; nothing the matter. Tired; wearied out. So long and anxious an evening. Good-night!”
She had come in to find him staring back into that room in a half cataleptic state; and the sight of his ghastly face brought all back to her. For a few moments she could not move, but at last, by an effort, she spoke, and he seemed to be snatched back by her voice into life and action.
“Good-night, father,” she said, trembling as she read the agonies of a conscious-stricken soul in his countenance, and she was moving towards the door, when, with an agonised cry, he turned to her.
“Claire, my child, must it be always so?” he cried, as he clasped his hands towards her as if in prayer.
“Father!” she said, in a voice almost inaudible from emotion.
“Claire, my child,” he moaned, as he sank upon his knees before her: “you do not know the burden I have to bear.”
She did what she had not done for months, as she stood trembling before him; laid one hand upon his head, while her lips parted as if to speak, but they only quivered and no words came.
At last, with a sobbing cry, she flung herself upon his neck, and he clasped her in his arms.
“Not to me, father,” she sobbed, “not to me; I am not your judge.”
“No,” he said softly, as he reverently kissed her brow; “you are not my judge.”
His lips parted to speak again, but he shook his head, while a sad smile came into and brightened his countenance.
“The load is lighter, Claire,” he said softly. “No, you are not my judge. If you were you would not condemn me unheard, and I cannot—dare not speak.”
He led her towards the door, and stood watching her as she passed upstairs and out of sight, turning her face to him once before she closed the door.
“The sweet pure angel and good genius of my home,” he said softly, with bent head, and with a calmer, more restful look in his countenance he went slowly to his own room.
All was soon dark and silent in the house so lately busy with the noise and buzz of many guests. Five minutes had not elapsed when the door was softly pushed open, and a slight little figure entered, and crossed to the window.
The noise made was very slight, as the swinging bar across the shutters was lifted and lowered, one of the shutters folded back, the fastening raised, and the window pushed ajar.
The figure stood in the semi-darkness in the attitude of one listening, and then drew back with a peculiar sigh as of one drawing in breath.
A couple of minutes passed, and then there was a scraping, rustling noise outside, the semi-darkness was deepened by a figure in the balcony, the window was drawn outwards, and a man passed in, whispering:
“May—sweet—are you there?”
A faintly uttered sigh was the response, and quick as thought the French window was closed, a step or two taken into the silent drawing-room, and May Burnett was tightly clasped in the arms of the nocturnal intruder.
“My darling!”
“No, no. Now one word, and you must go,” she whispered quickly. “I have done as I promised; now keep your word—to stay only one minute—say one word and go.”
“And I will keep it,” he cried, “my beautiful little love, my—Damnation!”
May started from his arms, for at that moment there was a thundering knock at the front door, and a violent drag at the bell.
Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.For her Sister’s Sake.“Oh, go—go quickly,” cried May excitedly. “It is my husband come back; what shall I do?”“Stop!” cried Sir Harry. “Listen!”“No, no; they are knocking again. My father will hear.”“But—”“No, no, you must not stay. Go,” she panted, and as she spoke, in her hurry and alarm, she pushed him towards the window.“Confound it all!” he muttered, as he opened it softly. “Pray, pray be quick,” she cried. “Oh, do—do go.”“Impossible!” he whispered back. “They would see. Hide me.”“I can’t—I can’t.”“You must. Somewhere here.”“No, no! You must go. Oh, what shall I do? I am lost—undone.”“Hush, little woman! Be calm,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know much about this house. Here, I will go downstairs.”“But you cannot; the footman will see you.”“Then, curse it all, hide me upstairs,” cried Sir Harry impatiently.“My father—my sister—what shall I do!—Oh!”That was all the visitor heard, and the faint cry that ended the sentence was drowned in a second tremendous peal at knocker and bell.“Confound her! she’s gone. May! hist!—May!—Don’t leave me like this!”He felt about for the door, but could not find it in his dread and confusion. Only one part of the room could he make out, and that was the window, by which flight was impossible without being seen.“Little wretch!” he muttered. “What a fool I am! Where is the cursed door? There were three here somewhere. What the devil am I to do? Curse—”He kicked against a chair, and nearly knocked it over, and then stumbled against a couch.“The door must be here somewhere,” he muttered. “Yes, there.”It was plain enough where the door was now, for a light shone beneath it, and the sides looked light, showing its shape, just as another peal came from knocker and bell.He had just time to drop down behind the sofa when the door opened, and the Master of the Ceremonies appeared in his long dressing-gown, candle in hand, crossed the drawing-room, and, opening the farther door, went through, and it swung to, leaving the intruder once more in darkness.He started up again as he heard the rattle of locks and bolts below, and made for the window, meaning to escape by it as soon as those who had alarmed the house had entered.“Curse him! Mellersh left to watch,” he muttered, as voices were heard from below—loud and angry voices—mingled with those of remonstrance.“I tell you we saw a man climb up and enter by the balcony,” came up; and in his alarm and horror the intruder knocked over an ornament now, as he made for the door that led to the bedrooms—his last chance of escaping unseen.“Ah, there she is,” he said beneath his breath, as the door was made visible once more by the rays of light all round.“Come up, then, and I will search the place,” came from below.“Don’t be alarmed: I’m going to see,” said a voice outside the door leading to the upper staircase; and the next moment the door opened, and Claire, in her white dressing-gown, entered candle in hand.“Sir Harry Payne!” she cried, as the light fell on the figure of the visitor.“Hush! For heaven’s sake, quick! Hide me somewhere. Quick! Before it is too late.”He had caught her by the arm and laid one hand upon her lips; and as she was trying to release herself, the other door opened, and Denville entered, closely followed by Frank Burnett and Richard Linnell.“Claire! Sir Harry Payne!” cried the Master of the Ceremonies.“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Burnett, with a grin. “No murder this time, except reputation. I had made up my mind to come and stop to-night, as my wife’s here; but, after this, the sooner she’s out of this place the better. Here, call her, some of you. Where’s her room?”Claire did not speak, but stood there, as if turned to stone, her eyes fixed upon the cold, stern face of Richard Linnell, as he stood back by the door.“Sir Harry Payne, speak, I insist,” cried Denville fiercely. “What does this mean?”“Hush, sir! Hush! pray, gentlemen. A little bit of gallantry, nothing more.”“Sir!” cried Denville.“Hush, sir, pray!” cried Sir Harry, who was white and trembling with dread. “No noise—the neighbours—the scandal. Perfectly innocent, I assure you. An assignation. I came to see Miss Denville here.”Claire turned her eyes slowly from Richard Linnell, whose look seemed to wither her, and fixed them on the despicable scoundrel, who was screening her sister before her husband, but who would not meet her stern gaze.“I thought as much,” said Burnett, with a sneer. “I tell you what—”“Silence!” hissed a voice in his ear, and a broad, strong hand came down on his shoulder with a grip like a vice.Claire saw it—the brave, true effort to defend her in her disgrace, and she lifted her eyes once more to Linnell’s. Then she let them close, and stood there silent, with the sweet little girlish innocent-looking face of her sister before her, as she stayed listening to the condemnation of husband and father—little May, her father’s darling—in her place. One word would save her, would clear her in the sight of the man who loved her, and of the father who stood sternly there; but she must condemn May to save herself, and she stood there as if convicted of the shameful act.For she spoke no word, and her sister’s fame was saved.
“Oh, go—go quickly,” cried May excitedly. “It is my husband come back; what shall I do?”
“Stop!” cried Sir Harry. “Listen!”
“No, no; they are knocking again. My father will hear.”
“But—”
“No, no, you must not stay. Go,” she panted, and as she spoke, in her hurry and alarm, she pushed him towards the window.
“Confound it all!” he muttered, as he opened it softly. “Pray, pray be quick,” she cried. “Oh, do—do go.”
“Impossible!” he whispered back. “They would see. Hide me.”
“I can’t—I can’t.”
“You must. Somewhere here.”
“No, no! You must go. Oh, what shall I do? I am lost—undone.”
“Hush, little woman! Be calm,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know much about this house. Here, I will go downstairs.”
“But you cannot; the footman will see you.”
“Then, curse it all, hide me upstairs,” cried Sir Harry impatiently.
“My father—my sister—what shall I do!—Oh!”
That was all the visitor heard, and the faint cry that ended the sentence was drowned in a second tremendous peal at knocker and bell.
“Confound her! she’s gone. May! hist!—May!—Don’t leave me like this!”
He felt about for the door, but could not find it in his dread and confusion. Only one part of the room could he make out, and that was the window, by which flight was impossible without being seen.
“Little wretch!” he muttered. “What a fool I am! Where is the cursed door? There were three here somewhere. What the devil am I to do? Curse—”
He kicked against a chair, and nearly knocked it over, and then stumbled against a couch.
“The door must be here somewhere,” he muttered. “Yes, there.”
It was plain enough where the door was now, for a light shone beneath it, and the sides looked light, showing its shape, just as another peal came from knocker and bell.
He had just time to drop down behind the sofa when the door opened, and the Master of the Ceremonies appeared in his long dressing-gown, candle in hand, crossed the drawing-room, and, opening the farther door, went through, and it swung to, leaving the intruder once more in darkness.
He started up again as he heard the rattle of locks and bolts below, and made for the window, meaning to escape by it as soon as those who had alarmed the house had entered.
“Curse him! Mellersh left to watch,” he muttered, as voices were heard from below—loud and angry voices—mingled with those of remonstrance.
“I tell you we saw a man climb up and enter by the balcony,” came up; and in his alarm and horror the intruder knocked over an ornament now, as he made for the door that led to the bedrooms—his last chance of escaping unseen.
“Ah, there she is,” he said beneath his breath, as the door was made visible once more by the rays of light all round.
“Come up, then, and I will search the place,” came from below.
“Don’t be alarmed: I’m going to see,” said a voice outside the door leading to the upper staircase; and the next moment the door opened, and Claire, in her white dressing-gown, entered candle in hand.
“Sir Harry Payne!” she cried, as the light fell on the figure of the visitor.
“Hush! For heaven’s sake, quick! Hide me somewhere. Quick! Before it is too late.”
He had caught her by the arm and laid one hand upon her lips; and as she was trying to release herself, the other door opened, and Denville entered, closely followed by Frank Burnett and Richard Linnell.
“Claire! Sir Harry Payne!” cried the Master of the Ceremonies.
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Burnett, with a grin. “No murder this time, except reputation. I had made up my mind to come and stop to-night, as my wife’s here; but, after this, the sooner she’s out of this place the better. Here, call her, some of you. Where’s her room?”
Claire did not speak, but stood there, as if turned to stone, her eyes fixed upon the cold, stern face of Richard Linnell, as he stood back by the door.
“Sir Harry Payne, speak, I insist,” cried Denville fiercely. “What does this mean?”
“Hush, sir! Hush! pray, gentlemen. A little bit of gallantry, nothing more.”
“Sir!” cried Denville.
“Hush, sir, pray!” cried Sir Harry, who was white and trembling with dread. “No noise—the neighbours—the scandal. Perfectly innocent, I assure you. An assignation. I came to see Miss Denville here.”
Claire turned her eyes slowly from Richard Linnell, whose look seemed to wither her, and fixed them on the despicable scoundrel, who was screening her sister before her husband, but who would not meet her stern gaze.
“I thought as much,” said Burnett, with a sneer. “I tell you what—”
“Silence!” hissed a voice in his ear, and a broad, strong hand came down on his shoulder with a grip like a vice.
Claire saw it—the brave, true effort to defend her in her disgrace, and she lifted her eyes once more to Linnell’s. Then she let them close, and stood there silent, with the sweet little girlish innocent-looking face of her sister before her, as she stayed listening to the condemnation of husband and father—little May, her father’s darling—in her place. One word would save her, would clear her in the sight of the man who loved her, and of the father who stood sternly there; but she must condemn May to save herself, and she stood there as if convicted of the shameful act.
For she spoke no word, and her sister’s fame was saved.
Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.A Staunch Friend.“No, Miss Clode; I can be angry, and I can speak my own mind, but I’m not going to be so mean and shabby as to take my custom somewhere else, though it is so tempting; but what I say is this—don’t you never say a word to me again about that young lady, or I shall fly out.”“I’m very sorry, ma’am, I’m sure, and you and Mr Barclay are such good customers, besides being my landlord and landlady.”“Oh, there’s nothing in that, Miss Clode. You pay your rent to the day, and, as Mr Barclay says, it’s a business transaction.”“Of course, it’s very painful to me, Mrs Barclay, and I shouldn’t have told you what I did, only you know you came and asked me what people were saying.”“Well, so I did. Yes, you’re right, I did. But it isn’t true, Miss Clode. Miss Claire Denville is as good as gold, and people tell most horrible stories, and where you get to know so much I can’t think. But does everybody talk about it?”“Yes, ma’am, everybody; and Mr and Mrs Burnett haven’t been there since.”“I don’t care: I won’t believe it. And is it a fact that she goes regularly to Fisherman Miggles’s to see that little girl?”“Yes, ma’am, regularly.”“Then she has a good reason for it. There!”“It’s a terrible blow for Mr Denville, of course, ma’am; and they say the young gentleman who has only just joined the dragoons is horribly put out, and challenged Sir Harry Payne, only the Colonel would not let them fight.”“Dear—dear—dear! Poor Denville! he has nothing but misfortunes. I am sorry for him; I am indeed. Well, I must go; but mind this, Miss Clode: Claire Denville is a particular friend of mine, and no one shall say ill of her in my presence.”There was a very strong resemblance to a ruffled hen, whose chickens had been looked at by a strange cat, in Mrs Barclay’s aspect as she left Miss Clode’s, while, at her aunt’s command, Annie, the bun-faced, moved a Berlin wool pattern on one side in the window so that she could command a view of the Parade from the bulging panes, and after watching there for a few minutes she said:“She’s gone by, auntie.”“Ah, with all her fuss, she daren’t keep up the acquaintance.”“She has turned back and gone in, auntie.”“Oh, very well, just as she likes; it is no business of mine.”Annie, the innocent, was quite right, for Mrs Barclay had walked by the Denvilles’, and then stopped short, indignant with herself; turned back and given a good bold rap at the door, to which Isaac, who looked discontented and strange, replied, and said, before he was asked:“Not at home.”“Now don’t you talk nonsense to me, young man,” said Mrs Barclay, “because—”“My master and mistress are—not—at—”Isaac began to drag his works towards the last, for Mrs Barclay was rummaging in her reticule for a half-crown, but could only find a good old-fashioned crown, which she slipped into the footman’s hand.To a man-servant who was beginning to look upon his arrears of wages as doubtful, a crown-piece was a coin not to be despised, and he took it and smiled.“Mr Denville is out, I suppose, isn’t he?”“Yes, ma’am.”“Well, I don’t want to see him, but just you go and ask Miss Claire to see me, and if she says no, you say I must see her. There!”The result was that Mrs Barclay was shown into the drawing-room, where Claire rose to meet her with cold dignity, and pointed to a chair.Instead of taking it, Mrs Barclay caught the girl in her arms, and gave her rapidly some half-dozen hearty kisses.“There, my dear,” she said, “if every bit as I’ve heard was quite true, I should have come all the same; but as I don’t believe one single synnable of the pack o’ lies, I’ve come to see you. There!”Thattherecame like an expiration of the breath as she plumped herself down, and the next minute Claire was upon her knees, her arms round the wide waist, and her face buried in the extensive bosom, sobbing violently, and relieving herself in tears of the pressure that had been crushing her down ever since the troubles of that terrible night.“That’s right, my darling: you cry—cry hard. A good cup o’ tea and a good cry’s the greatest blessings o’ Providence for us poor suffering women. No, no: you needn’t put a hankychy between. My Jo-si-ah never stints me in dresses, and you may spoil a dozen of ’em if that’ll do you any good.”“Mrs Barclay—Mrs Barclay!”“No, no, no: you’re going to take and try and explain and a lot more of it; but I won’t hear a word. I tell you I don’t believe nothing of what’s about. I said if Miss Claire Denville did this or that, she had good reason, being like the mother of that family, as even manages her poor father, so I don’t want to hear no lying scandal.”“Heaven bless you!” sobbed Claire, kissing her.“Ah, that’s nice,” said Mrs Barclay, smiling. “My little girl died, my dear, as would have been as old as you. Not like you, of course, but it seems as if she might have kissed me like that. I’m a very vulgar sort of woman, I know, my dear, well enough: and if I didn’t I soon should, with people sneering at me as they do. You ain’t sorry I came?”“Sorry? I can never say how it has touched me.”“I’m very glad of it, for I don’t want to know. And now, not another word about all that, for I know everything, and how all the people are cutting you and your poor pa. But never you mind, my dear. Lots of the people you knew were very fine-weather friends, such as run away as soon as a storm blows. You’ve got a clear conscience, so don’t you take on about it, but live it down.”“I shall try to,” said Claire, with a smile—the first that had been seen on her face for days.“It’s what I often say to my Jo-si-ah, though I haven’t got a clear conscience through Barclay’s money transactions, which ought to be on his, but as I keep his books, and know everything, they trouble me all the same. So everybody’s cutting you, eh?”“Yes,” said Claire sadly.“Then you cut them till they beg your pardon. And now, my dear, just one word from a simple plain woman, whose heart’s in the right place. If you want some one to confide in, or you want help of any kind, you know where Betsey Barclay lives, and that’s where there’s help, whether it’s a kind word, a cup o’ tea, or some one that you can put your arms round and cry upon, and whose purse is open to you, if you’ll excuse me for mentioning it.”“Miss Dean, ma’am,” said Isaac, opening the door.“Not at—”“Which I thought you were receiving, ma’am,” said Isaac in defence.Mrs Barclay rose to go, but Claire laid a hand upon her arm, and she resumed her seat as Cora Dean entered, elaborately dressed, and exchanged a most formal courtesy as the visitor rose once more.Cora could not have explained her visit, even to herself. She hated Claire: she loved her. She was triumphant over her fall: she was sorry for her. She was certain that she would no longer find in her a rival, and in spite of this, she felt a curious sensation of soreness of heart.She who had for a couple of years past been slighted by the fashionable folk of Saltinville, while Claire had been received everywhere, felt in the new flush of the success she had won a kind of triumph over an unfortunate sister, who would now, she knew, be socially ostracised; and in the plenitude of her own wealth of position she had told herself that she could afford to go and call upon the fallen rival, and, under the guise of politeness, see for herself how she bore her trouble, and assume a consolatoryrôlethat she told herself she did not feel.But Cora Dean, ill-educated and badly brought up, violent in her passions and quick to dislike a rival, had a very kindly woman’s heart within her breast; and as soon as she had formally saluted Mrs Barclay, and had seen the sad, grave face that met hers, ready to suffer insult if it were offered in the guise of friendship, a change came over her, the tender heart leaped, and in full remembrance of their last parting, she advanced quickly and kissed Claire warmly.There was no disguising the tears in her eyes, and they were infectious, for Mrs Barclay, whose feathers had been rising fast and her tongue sharpening into a point, heaved a tremendous sigh as she jumped up and exclaimed:“It’s very little I know of you, Miss Dean, and—I’m a plain woman—I never thought I should like you; but if you wouldn’t mind, my dear!”It was a kiss of peace, and Mrs Barclay added another that was very loud and very warm.“And her saying that she had no friends,” she exclaimed. “Pooh!”Claire darted a grateful look at both, and then began to wince and shrink as Mrs Barclay, in all well-meaning, went on talking from one to the other with the most voluble of tongues.“I declare,” she cried, “as I said to my Jo-si-ah, there’s no end to the nasty scandals talked in this miserable town.”“Pray say no more, Mrs Barclay,” cried Claire; “I am so grateful to you both for coming here, but—”“I won’t say much, my dear, but I must tell Miss Dean, or I shan’t be able to bear myself. What we want here is a great high tide to come all over the place and wash it clean.”“Why, we should be drowned, too, Mrs Barclay,” said Cora, laughing.“I hope not, my dear, for I’m no lover of scandal; but do you know, they actually have had the impudence to say that my dear Claire here has been seen at her back door talking to a common soldier.”Claire tried to control herself, but her eyes would stray to Cora Dean’s and rest there as if fascinated.“When the reason is,” continued the visitor, as Claire was asking herself should she not boldly avow her connection, “the reason is that she has been seen talking to her brother, who is not a common soldier, but an officer. What do you think of that?”Cora turned to her, smiled, and said:“I can believe in the Saltinville people saying anything ill-natured for the sake of petty gossip. We had much to contend against when we came.”“Of course, you had, my dear. Look at me, too: just because my poor Jo-si-ah does money business with some of the spendthrifts, and, of course, lets ’em pay for it, I’m made out to be the most greedy, miserly, wicked, drinking woman that ever breathed. I’m bad enough, I dare say, and between ourselves I do like a glass of hot port wine negus with plenty of nutmeg; but I am not so bad as they say, am I, my dear?”“You are one of the truest-hearted women I know,” said Claire, taking her hand.“There’s a character for me, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, turning to Cora and nodding her head and laughing. “Ah, I must tell you that too,” she cried as the recollection came, “just because—”“Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, rising, “pray spare me. I am not well; I have not been well lately, and—and—I know you will forgive me.”“Forgive you, my dear?” cried Mrs Barclay. “Why, of course. It’s horribly thoughtless of me. There, good-bye. Are you coming, Miss Dean?”Cora rose, feeling that she could not stay longer, and after a warm leave-taking, during which the two younger women mentally asked themselves whether they were friends or bitter enemies, Claire’s visitors withdrew and walked together along the parade.The slightest touch set Mrs Barclay’s tongue going, and before they had gone far Cora was in full possession of the newly-retailed story about Claire’s visits to the fishermen’s huts.“And do you believe this of her?” said Cora, with an eagerness that she could not conceal.“Now, we’re just become friendly, my dear, and I should be sorry to say anything nasty, but I ask you do I look as if I believed it?”“You look as if you were Claire Denville’s best friend,” said Cora diplomatically.“And so I am,” replied Mrs Barclay proudly. “I can’t help people talking scandal. They glory in it. And, look here, my dear, it isn’t far from here, and if you don’t mind, we’ll go along the cliff to the very house and call.”“Call!” said Cora in amaze.“Yes; it’s at a fisherman’s, you know—Fisherman Dick’s—and we can get a pint or two of s’rimps for tea.”The consequence was that Cora did walk along the cliff to Fisherman Dick’s cottage, and when Mrs Barclay reached her house an hour later her reticule bag was bulging so that the strings could not be drawn close, and the reason why was—shrimps.On the other hand, Cora Dean had not filled her reticule with shrimps, but her mind with unpleasant little thoughts that made it bulge. Curious thoughts they were, too, and, like Mrs Barclay’s shrimps, all jumbled together, heads and tails, ups and downs. She felt then that she could not arrange them, but that there was a great sensation of triumph in her breast, and what she wanted to do most was to sit down and think—no easy task, for her brain was in a whirl.
“No, Miss Clode; I can be angry, and I can speak my own mind, but I’m not going to be so mean and shabby as to take my custom somewhere else, though it is so tempting; but what I say is this—don’t you never say a word to me again about that young lady, or I shall fly out.”
“I’m very sorry, ma’am, I’m sure, and you and Mr Barclay are such good customers, besides being my landlord and landlady.”
“Oh, there’s nothing in that, Miss Clode. You pay your rent to the day, and, as Mr Barclay says, it’s a business transaction.”
“Of course, it’s very painful to me, Mrs Barclay, and I shouldn’t have told you what I did, only you know you came and asked me what people were saying.”
“Well, so I did. Yes, you’re right, I did. But it isn’t true, Miss Clode. Miss Claire Denville is as good as gold, and people tell most horrible stories, and where you get to know so much I can’t think. But does everybody talk about it?”
“Yes, ma’am, everybody; and Mr and Mrs Burnett haven’t been there since.”
“I don’t care: I won’t believe it. And is it a fact that she goes regularly to Fisherman Miggles’s to see that little girl?”
“Yes, ma’am, regularly.”
“Then she has a good reason for it. There!”
“It’s a terrible blow for Mr Denville, of course, ma’am; and they say the young gentleman who has only just joined the dragoons is horribly put out, and challenged Sir Harry Payne, only the Colonel would not let them fight.”
“Dear—dear—dear! Poor Denville! he has nothing but misfortunes. I am sorry for him; I am indeed. Well, I must go; but mind this, Miss Clode: Claire Denville is a particular friend of mine, and no one shall say ill of her in my presence.”
There was a very strong resemblance to a ruffled hen, whose chickens had been looked at by a strange cat, in Mrs Barclay’s aspect as she left Miss Clode’s, while, at her aunt’s command, Annie, the bun-faced, moved a Berlin wool pattern on one side in the window so that she could command a view of the Parade from the bulging panes, and after watching there for a few minutes she said:
“She’s gone by, auntie.”
“Ah, with all her fuss, she daren’t keep up the acquaintance.”
“She has turned back and gone in, auntie.”
“Oh, very well, just as she likes; it is no business of mine.”
Annie, the innocent, was quite right, for Mrs Barclay had walked by the Denvilles’, and then stopped short, indignant with herself; turned back and given a good bold rap at the door, to which Isaac, who looked discontented and strange, replied, and said, before he was asked:
“Not at home.”
“Now don’t you talk nonsense to me, young man,” said Mrs Barclay, “because—”
“My master and mistress are—not—at—”
Isaac began to drag his works towards the last, for Mrs Barclay was rummaging in her reticule for a half-crown, but could only find a good old-fashioned crown, which she slipped into the footman’s hand.
To a man-servant who was beginning to look upon his arrears of wages as doubtful, a crown-piece was a coin not to be despised, and he took it and smiled.
“Mr Denville is out, I suppose, isn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I don’t want to see him, but just you go and ask Miss Claire to see me, and if she says no, you say I must see her. There!”
The result was that Mrs Barclay was shown into the drawing-room, where Claire rose to meet her with cold dignity, and pointed to a chair.
Instead of taking it, Mrs Barclay caught the girl in her arms, and gave her rapidly some half-dozen hearty kisses.
“There, my dear,” she said, “if every bit as I’ve heard was quite true, I should have come all the same; but as I don’t believe one single synnable of the pack o’ lies, I’ve come to see you. There!”
Thattherecame like an expiration of the breath as she plumped herself down, and the next minute Claire was upon her knees, her arms round the wide waist, and her face buried in the extensive bosom, sobbing violently, and relieving herself in tears of the pressure that had been crushing her down ever since the troubles of that terrible night.
“That’s right, my darling: you cry—cry hard. A good cup o’ tea and a good cry’s the greatest blessings o’ Providence for us poor suffering women. No, no: you needn’t put a hankychy between. My Jo-si-ah never stints me in dresses, and you may spoil a dozen of ’em if that’ll do you any good.”
“Mrs Barclay—Mrs Barclay!”
“No, no, no: you’re going to take and try and explain and a lot more of it; but I won’t hear a word. I tell you I don’t believe nothing of what’s about. I said if Miss Claire Denville did this or that, she had good reason, being like the mother of that family, as even manages her poor father, so I don’t want to hear no lying scandal.”
“Heaven bless you!” sobbed Claire, kissing her.
“Ah, that’s nice,” said Mrs Barclay, smiling. “My little girl died, my dear, as would have been as old as you. Not like you, of course, but it seems as if she might have kissed me like that. I’m a very vulgar sort of woman, I know, my dear, well enough: and if I didn’t I soon should, with people sneering at me as they do. You ain’t sorry I came?”
“Sorry? I can never say how it has touched me.”
“I’m very glad of it, for I don’t want to know. And now, not another word about all that, for I know everything, and how all the people are cutting you and your poor pa. But never you mind, my dear. Lots of the people you knew were very fine-weather friends, such as run away as soon as a storm blows. You’ve got a clear conscience, so don’t you take on about it, but live it down.”
“I shall try to,” said Claire, with a smile—the first that had been seen on her face for days.
“It’s what I often say to my Jo-si-ah, though I haven’t got a clear conscience through Barclay’s money transactions, which ought to be on his, but as I keep his books, and know everything, they trouble me all the same. So everybody’s cutting you, eh?”
“Yes,” said Claire sadly.
“Then you cut them till they beg your pardon. And now, my dear, just one word from a simple plain woman, whose heart’s in the right place. If you want some one to confide in, or you want help of any kind, you know where Betsey Barclay lives, and that’s where there’s help, whether it’s a kind word, a cup o’ tea, or some one that you can put your arms round and cry upon, and whose purse is open to you, if you’ll excuse me for mentioning it.”
“Miss Dean, ma’am,” said Isaac, opening the door.
“Not at—”
“Which I thought you were receiving, ma’am,” said Isaac in defence.
Mrs Barclay rose to go, but Claire laid a hand upon her arm, and she resumed her seat as Cora Dean entered, elaborately dressed, and exchanged a most formal courtesy as the visitor rose once more.
Cora could not have explained her visit, even to herself. She hated Claire: she loved her. She was triumphant over her fall: she was sorry for her. She was certain that she would no longer find in her a rival, and in spite of this, she felt a curious sensation of soreness of heart.
She who had for a couple of years past been slighted by the fashionable folk of Saltinville, while Claire had been received everywhere, felt in the new flush of the success she had won a kind of triumph over an unfortunate sister, who would now, she knew, be socially ostracised; and in the plenitude of her own wealth of position she had told herself that she could afford to go and call upon the fallen rival, and, under the guise of politeness, see for herself how she bore her trouble, and assume a consolatoryrôlethat she told herself she did not feel.
But Cora Dean, ill-educated and badly brought up, violent in her passions and quick to dislike a rival, had a very kindly woman’s heart within her breast; and as soon as she had formally saluted Mrs Barclay, and had seen the sad, grave face that met hers, ready to suffer insult if it were offered in the guise of friendship, a change came over her, the tender heart leaped, and in full remembrance of their last parting, she advanced quickly and kissed Claire warmly.
There was no disguising the tears in her eyes, and they were infectious, for Mrs Barclay, whose feathers had been rising fast and her tongue sharpening into a point, heaved a tremendous sigh as she jumped up and exclaimed:
“It’s very little I know of you, Miss Dean, and—I’m a plain woman—I never thought I should like you; but if you wouldn’t mind, my dear!”
It was a kiss of peace, and Mrs Barclay added another that was very loud and very warm.
“And her saying that she had no friends,” she exclaimed. “Pooh!”
Claire darted a grateful look at both, and then began to wince and shrink as Mrs Barclay, in all well-meaning, went on talking from one to the other with the most voluble of tongues.
“I declare,” she cried, “as I said to my Jo-si-ah, there’s no end to the nasty scandals talked in this miserable town.”
“Pray say no more, Mrs Barclay,” cried Claire; “I am so grateful to you both for coming here, but—”
“I won’t say much, my dear, but I must tell Miss Dean, or I shan’t be able to bear myself. What we want here is a great high tide to come all over the place and wash it clean.”
“Why, we should be drowned, too, Mrs Barclay,” said Cora, laughing.
“I hope not, my dear, for I’m no lover of scandal; but do you know, they actually have had the impudence to say that my dear Claire here has been seen at her back door talking to a common soldier.”
Claire tried to control herself, but her eyes would stray to Cora Dean’s and rest there as if fascinated.
“When the reason is,” continued the visitor, as Claire was asking herself should she not boldly avow her connection, “the reason is that she has been seen talking to her brother, who is not a common soldier, but an officer. What do you think of that?”
Cora turned to her, smiled, and said:
“I can believe in the Saltinville people saying anything ill-natured for the sake of petty gossip. We had much to contend against when we came.”
“Of course, you had, my dear. Look at me, too: just because my poor Jo-si-ah does money business with some of the spendthrifts, and, of course, lets ’em pay for it, I’m made out to be the most greedy, miserly, wicked, drinking woman that ever breathed. I’m bad enough, I dare say, and between ourselves I do like a glass of hot port wine negus with plenty of nutmeg; but I am not so bad as they say, am I, my dear?”
“You are one of the truest-hearted women I know,” said Claire, taking her hand.
“There’s a character for me, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, turning to Cora and nodding her head and laughing. “Ah, I must tell you that too,” she cried as the recollection came, “just because—”
“Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, rising, “pray spare me. I am not well; I have not been well lately, and—and—I know you will forgive me.”
“Forgive you, my dear?” cried Mrs Barclay. “Why, of course. It’s horribly thoughtless of me. There, good-bye. Are you coming, Miss Dean?”
Cora rose, feeling that she could not stay longer, and after a warm leave-taking, during which the two younger women mentally asked themselves whether they were friends or bitter enemies, Claire’s visitors withdrew and walked together along the parade.
The slightest touch set Mrs Barclay’s tongue going, and before they had gone far Cora was in full possession of the newly-retailed story about Claire’s visits to the fishermen’s huts.
“And do you believe this of her?” said Cora, with an eagerness that she could not conceal.
“Now, we’re just become friendly, my dear, and I should be sorry to say anything nasty, but I ask you do I look as if I believed it?”
“You look as if you were Claire Denville’s best friend,” said Cora diplomatically.
“And so I am,” replied Mrs Barclay proudly. “I can’t help people talking scandal. They glory in it. And, look here, my dear, it isn’t far from here, and if you don’t mind, we’ll go along the cliff to the very house and call.”
“Call!” said Cora in amaze.
“Yes; it’s at a fisherman’s, you know—Fisherman Dick’s—and we can get a pint or two of s’rimps for tea.”
The consequence was that Cora did walk along the cliff to Fisherman Dick’s cottage, and when Mrs Barclay reached her house an hour later her reticule bag was bulging so that the strings could not be drawn close, and the reason why was—shrimps.
On the other hand, Cora Dean had not filled her reticule with shrimps, but her mind with unpleasant little thoughts that made it bulge. Curious thoughts they were, too, and, like Mrs Barclay’s shrimps, all jumbled together, heads and tails, ups and downs. She felt then that she could not arrange them, but that there was a great sensation of triumph in her breast, and what she wanted to do most was to sit down and think—no easy task, for her brain was in a whirl.
Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.A Stormy Scene.“I’ve never dared to write to you before, Clairy. Frank watches me so; but, though I don’t come, I think lots about you, and I shall never forget what a dear, good thing you were that night. Good-bye. We must be separate for a bit, till that bother’s all forgotten, but don’t you fidget; I’m going to be so good now.”Claire was reading the note that had come to her, she knew not how, for the second time, wondering how a woman—her sister—could be so utterly heartless; and, after leaving her to bear the brunt of Sir Harry Payne’s shameless accusation, treat it all as such a mere trifle.Claire held the letter in her hand, with her spirits very low, and a bitter, despairing look was in her eyes as she sat gazing before her, thinking that no greater trouble could come to her now.Richard Linnell had just passed the house, and though ever since the night of the “At Home,” she had shrunk away and rigidly kept from noticing him, the one pleasure she had longed for was to see the grave, wistful look he was in the habit of directing at the window. Now, he had gone by without raising his eyes.It was the most cruel pang of all. He might have had faith in her, even if she had rejected his suit, and told him that it was hopeless in the extreme.Her cheeks burned as she thought of Cora Dean with her Juno-like face and her manifest liking for Richard Linnell.“What is it to me?” she said to herself; and her tears fell fast upon the letter she held in her hand, and she did not hear her father enter the drawing-room, nor see him glance quickly from her in the flesh to the sweetly innocent face of his favourite child, smiling down upon him from the young Italian artist’s canvas.Then he caught sight of the letter, and saw that she was weeping.An angry flash came into his eyes; the mincing dandyism gave place to a sharp angular rigidity, and stepping quickly across the intervening space that separated him from his child, he was about to take the note from her hands.Claire uttered a faint cry of alarm, started from the sofa, and hastily thrust the folded paper into her pocket.“That letter,” he said, stamping his foot, “give me that letter.”“No, no, I cannot, father,” she cried, with a look of terror at his worn and excited face.“I insist,” he cried. “I will not allow these clandestine correspondences to be carried on. Give me the letter.”“Father, I cannot,” she said firmly.“Am I to take it from you by force?” he cried. “Am I, a gentleman who has struggled all these years to make himself the model from which society is to take its stand, who has striven so hard for his children, to be disgraced by you?”No answer.“Heaven knows how I have struggled, and it seems that two of my children must have been born with some base blood in their veins, and to be for ever my disgrace.”Claire raised her eyes to his full of pitying wonder.“See how your—no, God help me!” he cried wildly, “I dare not utter his name. See how you have disgraced your married sister—lowered me in the eyes of society. I am almost ruined, and just at a time when I had succeeded in placing your brother well. And now, see here—see here!”He tore a note from his breast, and held it out rustling in his trembling hand.“Here—I will not punish you more by reading it aloud,” he said; “but it is from my own son.”“From Fred?”“Silence, woman!” cried Denville, with a wild look of agony in his eyes, and a ghastly pallor taking the place of the two feverish spots that had stood in his cheeks. “I have no such son. He is an outcast. I forbid you to mention his name again.”He stood quivering with a curious passion, his lips moving, his eyes staring wildly, and he beat one hand with the open letter he held in the other.“Here!” he exclaimed at last, “from Morton—to say that, under the circumstances, he feels bound—for the sake of his own dignity and position in his regiment, to hold aloof from his home. The regiment will soon change quarters, and in time all this, he hopes, will be forgotten. Till then, all is to be at an end between us. This—from my own son.”He began to pace the room nervously, thrusting back the letter; and then he turned upon Claire again.“Not content, you still go on. Clandestine correspondence. Let me see who wrote that.”“I cannot, father.”“But I insist. Here, just when I had had your hand asked in marriage by one who is wealthy and noble, you disgrace us all by that shameless meeting. Give me the letter, I say.”In his rage he caught her by the arms, and she struggled with him and fell upon her knees at his feet.“Am I to use force?” he cried.“For your own sake, no. Father, the letter is not what you think. For your own peace of mind, let it stay.”His hands dropped to his sides at his daughter’s wild appeal, and the convulsed angry look once more gave place to the one of dread, as he drew back a step.“Tell me,” he cried, still hesitating, “is it from that libertine, Sir Harry Payne?”“No, no!”“From Rockley?”“No, father. How can you think me so degraded—so low!”“Then—then—”“Father, for pity’s sake!” she cried, as she crept to his knees and embraced them. “Can you not see how I am willing to bear everything to save you pain? Has there not been agony and suffering enough in this house? You cannot think—you cannot believe. Is it not better that we should let this rest?”He raised his trembling hands to his lips in a nervous, excited way, looking searchingly and furtively by turns in his child’s piteous face. The rage in his own had died out, to give place to the look of terror; and, as Claire clung to him, he now and again glanced at the door, as if he would flee from her presence.“No, no,” he said at last. “I was wrong. I will not see the letter. You have your secrets: I have mine. Claire, my child, there is a veil, drawn down by you, over that night’s work. I dare not lift it, I dare not look.”“Once more, father,” she said, “had we not better let it rest? I am content; I make no murmur against my fate.”“No,” he said, flashing out again into anger; “but—hush!—stop!—I must not,” he whispered hoarsely. “These strange fits. I cannot bear them.”He threw back and shook his head excitedly.“I should go mad—I should go mad.”“Father!”“There, I am calm again, my child. I am not myself sometimes. There—there—it is past.”He bent over and raised her to his breast, where she laid her head, uttering a piteous sigh.“Stricken,” he whispered; “stricken, my child. The workings of a terrible fate. Don’t reproach—don’t think ill of me, Claire. Some day the light may come—no, no,” he cried wildly; “better the darkness. I am so weak—so torn by the agony I have endured. So weak, so pitiful a man; but, with all this wretched vanity and struggle for place, my miserable heart has been so full of love for you all—for my little May.”Claire shivered.“No, no,” he cried excitedly. “Claire, my child, don’t speak. Hush! listen, my child. There have been cases where, in self-abnegation—the sins of others—have been borne—by the innocent—the innocent! Oh, my child, my child!”His head dropped upon his daughter’s shoulder, and he burst into a fit of sobbing, the outpourings of a flood of anguish that he fought vainly to restrain.“Father, dear father!” she whispered, as her arms tightened around him.“Claire, my child—my child!”“Yes,” she said, as she seemed to be growing stronger and more firm; “your child—not your judge. Father, I see my duty clearly now. Your help and comfort to the end.”
“I’ve never dared to write to you before, Clairy. Frank watches me so; but, though I don’t come, I think lots about you, and I shall never forget what a dear, good thing you were that night. Good-bye. We must be separate for a bit, till that bother’s all forgotten, but don’t you fidget; I’m going to be so good now.”
Claire was reading the note that had come to her, she knew not how, for the second time, wondering how a woman—her sister—could be so utterly heartless; and, after leaving her to bear the brunt of Sir Harry Payne’s shameless accusation, treat it all as such a mere trifle.
Claire held the letter in her hand, with her spirits very low, and a bitter, despairing look was in her eyes as she sat gazing before her, thinking that no greater trouble could come to her now.
Richard Linnell had just passed the house, and though ever since the night of the “At Home,” she had shrunk away and rigidly kept from noticing him, the one pleasure she had longed for was to see the grave, wistful look he was in the habit of directing at the window. Now, he had gone by without raising his eyes.
It was the most cruel pang of all. He might have had faith in her, even if she had rejected his suit, and told him that it was hopeless in the extreme.
Her cheeks burned as she thought of Cora Dean with her Juno-like face and her manifest liking for Richard Linnell.
“What is it to me?” she said to herself; and her tears fell fast upon the letter she held in her hand, and she did not hear her father enter the drawing-room, nor see him glance quickly from her in the flesh to the sweetly innocent face of his favourite child, smiling down upon him from the young Italian artist’s canvas.
Then he caught sight of the letter, and saw that she was weeping.
An angry flash came into his eyes; the mincing dandyism gave place to a sharp angular rigidity, and stepping quickly across the intervening space that separated him from his child, he was about to take the note from her hands.
Claire uttered a faint cry of alarm, started from the sofa, and hastily thrust the folded paper into her pocket.
“That letter,” he said, stamping his foot, “give me that letter.”
“No, no, I cannot, father,” she cried, with a look of terror at his worn and excited face.
“I insist,” he cried. “I will not allow these clandestine correspondences to be carried on. Give me the letter.”
“Father, I cannot,” she said firmly.
“Am I to take it from you by force?” he cried. “Am I, a gentleman who has struggled all these years to make himself the model from which society is to take its stand, who has striven so hard for his children, to be disgraced by you?”
No answer.
“Heaven knows how I have struggled, and it seems that two of my children must have been born with some base blood in their veins, and to be for ever my disgrace.”
Claire raised her eyes to his full of pitying wonder.
“See how your—no, God help me!” he cried wildly, “I dare not utter his name. See how you have disgraced your married sister—lowered me in the eyes of society. I am almost ruined, and just at a time when I had succeeded in placing your brother well. And now, see here—see here!”
He tore a note from his breast, and held it out rustling in his trembling hand.
“Here—I will not punish you more by reading it aloud,” he said; “but it is from my own son.”
“From Fred?”
“Silence, woman!” cried Denville, with a wild look of agony in his eyes, and a ghastly pallor taking the place of the two feverish spots that had stood in his cheeks. “I have no such son. He is an outcast. I forbid you to mention his name again.”
He stood quivering with a curious passion, his lips moving, his eyes staring wildly, and he beat one hand with the open letter he held in the other.
“Here!” he exclaimed at last, “from Morton—to say that, under the circumstances, he feels bound—for the sake of his own dignity and position in his regiment, to hold aloof from his home. The regiment will soon change quarters, and in time all this, he hopes, will be forgotten. Till then, all is to be at an end between us. This—from my own son.”
He began to pace the room nervously, thrusting back the letter; and then he turned upon Claire again.
“Not content, you still go on. Clandestine correspondence. Let me see who wrote that.”
“I cannot, father.”
“But I insist. Here, just when I had had your hand asked in marriage by one who is wealthy and noble, you disgrace us all by that shameless meeting. Give me the letter, I say.”
In his rage he caught her by the arms, and she struggled with him and fell upon her knees at his feet.
“Am I to use force?” he cried.
“For your own sake, no. Father, the letter is not what you think. For your own peace of mind, let it stay.”
His hands dropped to his sides at his daughter’s wild appeal, and the convulsed angry look once more gave place to the one of dread, as he drew back a step.
“Tell me,” he cried, still hesitating, “is it from that libertine, Sir Harry Payne?”
“No, no!”
“From Rockley?”
“No, father. How can you think me so degraded—so low!”
“Then—then—”
“Father, for pity’s sake!” she cried, as she crept to his knees and embraced them. “Can you not see how I am willing to bear everything to save you pain? Has there not been agony and suffering enough in this house? You cannot think—you cannot believe. Is it not better that we should let this rest?”
He raised his trembling hands to his lips in a nervous, excited way, looking searchingly and furtively by turns in his child’s piteous face. The rage in his own had died out, to give place to the look of terror; and, as Claire clung to him, he now and again glanced at the door, as if he would flee from her presence.
“No, no,” he said at last. “I was wrong. I will not see the letter. You have your secrets: I have mine. Claire, my child, there is a veil, drawn down by you, over that night’s work. I dare not lift it, I dare not look.”
“Once more, father,” she said, “had we not better let it rest? I am content; I make no murmur against my fate.”
“No,” he said, flashing out again into anger; “but—hush!—stop!—I must not,” he whispered hoarsely. “These strange fits. I cannot bear them.”
He threw back and shook his head excitedly.
“I should go mad—I should go mad.”
“Father!”
“There, I am calm again, my child. I am not myself sometimes. There—there—it is past.”
He bent over and raised her to his breast, where she laid her head, uttering a piteous sigh.
“Stricken,” he whispered; “stricken, my child. The workings of a terrible fate. Don’t reproach—don’t think ill of me, Claire. Some day the light may come—no, no,” he cried wildly; “better the darkness. I am so weak—so torn by the agony I have endured. So weak, so pitiful a man; but, with all this wretched vanity and struggle for place, my miserable heart has been so full of love for you all—for my little May.”
Claire shivered.
“No, no,” he cried excitedly. “Claire, my child, don’t speak. Hush! listen, my child. There have been cases where, in self-abnegation—the sins of others—have been borne—by the innocent—the innocent! Oh, my child, my child!”
His head dropped upon his daughter’s shoulder, and he burst into a fit of sobbing, the outpourings of a flood of anguish that he fought vainly to restrain.
“Father, dear father!” she whispered, as her arms tightened around him.
“Claire, my child—my child!”
“Yes,” she said, as she seemed to be growing stronger and more firm; “your child—not your judge. Father, I see my duty clearly now. Your help and comfort to the end.”