Chapter X: Part 10

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 XVI.

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.

Volume Two, Chapter XVII.

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!"

That _there_ came 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 consolatory _role_ that 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 XVIII.

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."

Volume Two, Chapter XIX.

PEACE AND SYMPATHY.

"And I thought that there would be no more rest and comfort here, my child. Claire, one night--"

"No, no, dearest," she cried, as she laid her soft white hand upon his lips; "the past cannot be recalled."

"Only this little revelation," he said, as he kissed the soft hand and held it to his cheek, "then the past shall be as dead with us. One night--since that night--I said to myself that I could bear no more, and I locked myself in my room; but something seemed to stay my hand--a something seemed to bid me live on, even in my pitiful, degraded state; and always--I cannot tell you how--your face seemed to be before my eyes. I tried to put it from me, but it was there. I fought against it, for I was enraged with you one minute, trembling with dread of what I dare not see the next; but still your face seemed to be there, my child, and I said at last that I would live it down or face it, if the dread time that haunts me always, as if lying in my path, should at last leap out."

"Father!"

"My child! There, there; we do not know how much we can bear until the burden is laid upon us; and now let us cleave together like soldiers in the battle of life. Claire, child, we must live."

She sat holding his hand in hers, with her brow knit, and a far-off look in her eyes.

"I am so old and broken," he said musingly; "so helpless. For so many years my miserable energies have been bent solely to this pitiful life, or I would say let us leave here at once, and go where we are not known, to live in some simple fashion; but--I know nothing. I cannot work."

"But I can, father," she said, with a look of elation in her eyes. "I am young and strong, and I will work for you as you have worked for me. Let us go."

"Where, my child?" he said, as he kissed her hand tenderly. "What work would you do--you, so beautiful, so unfit for the rough toil of life?"

"As a teacher--a governess," she cried; but he shook his head, and began to tremble and draw her closer to him.

"No, no," he said excitedly; "that would mean separation; and Claire," he whispered, "I am so weak--so broken--that I must have your young spirit to sustain me. I cannot live without you. Left alone--no, no, no, I dare not be left alone."

"Hush, dear!" she said, laying her cheek upon his shoulder, and drawing him to her breast, to soothe the agony of dread from which he suffered. "I will not leave you, then, father, I will be your help and stay. Nothing shall separate us now."

"No, no." He whispered the words. "I could not live without you, Claire, and I dare not die. My miserable, useless life may prove useful yet. Yes, my child, I feel it--I know it. My work is not yet done. Claire, my course is marked out for me; we must stay here till then."

"Till then, father?"

"Yes; and live it down. Yes, I am wanted here. You will help me?"

"Father, I am your child."

"Yes, yes," he cried, resuming his old flippant air so suddenly that Claire, who did not realise the reaction that had set in, gazed at him tremblingly. "I shall live it down as of old. We must begin again, my dear, and those miserable, brainless butterflies will soon forget, and come to me for my help and introductions. We must not leave here, and the old fees will come once more."

Claire sighed.

"Yes, child, it would have been a happier life to have gone; but it is braver to stay. Let your sweet face show in its dignity how lightly you treat all slander and scandal. Some day, after all, you shall marry well."

She did not reply, and he went on excitedly:

"Now let me see what friends we have left. The Barclays stand firm as rocks. Those Deans, too--so vulgar, but quite as friendly as before. Mrs Pontardent."

"Mrs Pontardent, father?"

"Yes, my dear, yes. Among so few, we must not be choosers. Remember old Hobson, you know. I know nothing against her but her tables. They gamble high; but where do they not? She has arranged for an evening, and I have promised her to go and take the management, and help her to receive her visitors--and--er--and--"

"She has asked you to bring me?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I could read it in your eyes, father," said Claire. "Oh, it is impossible."

"I will not press you, my child; but it is almost life to me, and it would be giving us a stepping-stone to recover our lost ground."

"Do you wish me to go, father?"

"If--if--you would not mind very much, my dear," he said hesitatingly. "It would be helping me."

He kissed her hand and left her to her own thoughts. The tears flowed for a while, and then, with a sigh, Claire rose with a look of resignation on her countenance, as if she accepted her fate.

Volume Two, Chapter XX.

PRIVATE INSTRUCTIONS.

"Look here, Bell," said Major Rockley, as he stood in his quarters, with his regimental servant before him; "you were drunk again last night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you are not ashamed of it?"

"Yes, sir, very much ashamed of it. It's my weakness, sir."

"Weakness, you scoundrel? It's your blackguardly conduct. You have been under arrest so many times for this disgraceful behaviour, and I have such a black list against you, that if I lay it before Colonel Lascelles he will have you flogged."

"But you won't do that, sir."

"Yes, I will, you scoundrel. No: I'll give you another chance."

"Thank you, sir; I was sure you would," said the young man, flushing slightly, and with a strange look in his face.

"By the way, what time did Mr Denville come back to his quarters?"

"Two o'clock, sir."

"With whom had he been?"

"Sir Matthew Bray, sir. Lady Drelincourt's, I think."

"Humph! Now, look here; can I trust you, Bell?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'm going to give you a delicate bit of business to do for me."

"Yes, sir."

"If you do it well, I shall give you a clean slate to begin again, and wipe off that last report."

"Thankye, sir."

"I cannot--at least I do not wish to--be seen in the business preparations, so I trust to you."

"Yes, sir."

"Go directly then, to Moggridge's, and arrange for a post-chaise and four to be at Prince's Road to-night at--say eleven--no; half-past ten."

"Yes, sir."

"Pick good fast horses. Pack a light valise with a change; put my pistols in the pockets of the carriage, and you will be there ready to see me off. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"There's--well, to be plain with you--a lady in the case."

"I see, sir."

"And, mind this; after we have started, you stay behind, and if there is any inquiry directly after, you volunteer information, and say we have taken the London Road. You understand?"

"Quite, sir."

"There's a sovereign for you. No: you'll get drunk if I give it you now. I'll give you five when I come back."

"Very good, sir."

"And mind, if I am wanted, I am unwell in bed. I want a good start."

"I see, sir. You may depend on me. But what house, sir, in Prince's Road?"

"You'll see, blockhead. The one that is lighted up. Mrs Pontardent's."

Major Rockley's regimental servant saluted, turned upon his heel, and went out muttering "Scoundrel!" between his teeth. "I wonder who the lady is?"

"I wouldn't change places with you, my fine fellow," he muttered, as he went across the parade ground; and, turning a corner, he came suddenly upon Sir Harry Payne, Sir Matthew Bray, and the new cornet, who flushed scarlet, as he saw the dragoon.

James Bell saluted, and was passing, but Sir Harry Payne stopped him, and Cornet Denville said hastily:

"I've left my cigar-case. Join you directly."

He went away quickly, and Sir Harry Payne said:

"Where are you going, Bell?"

"Major's washerwoman, sir," said the dragoon promptly.

"Then you can call at River's for me. Half a dozen pairs of white kid gloves. He knows my size. Shall he get you some, Matt?"

"No; not going."

"Isn't she going?"

"No."

"Never mind; you'd better come. Denville's pretty sister will be there."

"Phew! Will she?" said Sir Matthew, whistling. "I say, mind what you're about. There may be a row."

"Not there. I shan't notice her; and if I did, Denville's all right. We're the best of friends now."

"But are you sure she's coming?"

"Pontardent told me herself. She came round the old man."

"Then I will come. Order me some gloves, Harry. I've no change."

"You never do have any. Here! Tell them to send half a dozen pairs for Sir Matthew, and put them down to me. What's the matter with your lip?"

"My lip, sir?"

"Yes; it's bleeding."

"Cracked, sir."

"Yes: fevered. Drink too much. That will do. Nines, or tens--the gloves?"

"No, no: eights," cried Sir Matthew; and the dragoon went on out of the barrack gates, with his face growing grey.

"This is being a soldier," he muttered. "The scoundrel! If I thrash him till he can't move, they'll shoot me. But no, it can't be. She's too good a girl. Impossible. Besides, I shall be there."

He went straight to the livery-stable keeper, and arranged for the best four horses he had, and gave the man a hint.

"Very private, you know."

"Right, my lad. I know what the Major is. Here's half-a-crown for you to get a glass."

"Thank ye."

James Bell pocketed the coin, and went off back to pack his master's valise, and load the case of pistols ready to take to the chaise in the evening, after which he went to have one half-pint of ale, for he was suffering from a severe sensation of thirst, one that he often felt come on.

"Just one glass," he said. "That's all."

James Bell partook of his one glass, but it was not all. Then he went back to see to the horses in his charge in a stable near the barracks-- two belonging to the Major, and one of the Colonel's.

The helper was there, and as the extra work would fall to his share that night, there was an excuse for giving him a glass of ale, of which he partook, nothing loth.

The message of Sir Harry Payne had been given, the clothes were packed up, the pistols ready. Yes, every thing had been done; and at last, when it was getting dark, James Bell, looking very stern and determined, and with a tendency to walk extremely straight, as if he were aiming at something right ahead, went off to Moggridge's, placed the packed valise under the seat of the post-chaise, the pistols in the pockets, and then had a chat with the postboys, and--a glass of ale.

There was an hour yet to the time, so he strolled to the end of the yard, and thought he would just go as far as the stables to see if the helper had properly bedded down the horses; and this proving to be the case, and a shilling still remaining unspent of that half-crown, the dragoon suggested that a pot of the best ale should be fetched, and that they should drink it before he went.

The helper was worthy of his title, and fetched the ale, and then, one seated on a truss of straw, the other upon the corn-bin, the two men finished the ale between them, and just at the time that James Bell should have been at Mrs Pontardent's gate, he was fast asleep in the stable.

That afternoon Mr Barclay was busy with his partner, when a visitor was announced, and as it was probably a call relating to money matters, Mrs Barclay left the room.

"Oh, it's you, Moggridge," said Barclay gruffly. "You don't want money, I'm sure."

"Thank ye, no, Mr Barclay, sir," said the visitor, a closely shaven, sharp-faced man, with bow legs. "Things is moving, sir. I'm doing tidy;" and he went on chewing a piece of clover hay, which he had between his lips.

"What do you want then?"

"Well, you know what you said, sir, after the Hon. Tom Badgley went off that night, and dodged the sheriff's officers; and you know what I promised you."

"Who's going now?"

"Major Rockley, sir."

"The deuce! Alone?"

"No, sir. I think there's a lady in the case."

"Who?"

"Don't know, sir. Take up at Mrs Pontardent's party; half arter ten."

"Thank ye, Moggridge. What'll you take?"

"Well, sir, champagne's a thing as don't often come in my way, and--"

"Come along," said Barclay, and Mr Moggridge's desires were satisfied.

"Not a bolt!" said Barclay to himself. "Who's the woman? Well, I don't want him to go. If he goes off he won't meet my bill. He must be stopped, but how?"

He stood thinking for a few minutes, and then sat down and wrote a letter which he took out, and picking a boy from the idlers on the cliff, sent it to its destination.

Volume Two, Chapter XXI.

A WALK AND A DRIVE.

Richard Linnell found a good deal of relief in his restless state of mind in taking long country walks, telling himself that he got away from his thoughts; but, on the contrary, he thought the more, and enjoyed his misery as some young men do whose love affairs go crooked.

He was about nine miles away from Saltinville on the day of Mrs Pontardent's party, and rapidly increasing the distance, when he suddenly became aware of the sound of wheels behind in the road, and looking round as he gave place to the driver, he found that Cora Dean was checking her ponies.

"Confound her! she has followed me," he said to himself, as she drew up by his side, quite alone, for the little seat generally occupied by the boy-groom was turned over and closed.

"This is unexpected, Mr Linnell," she said, holding out her gloved hand. "I thought you were at home."

"I felt sure you were," he said, smiling.

"Why?"

The question was accompanied by a half resentful, half tender look, the first intended, the latter not.

"I expected that you would be busy with hair-dressers and dressmakers, preparing for to-night's battle."

"To-night's battle?"

"Yes," he said, in a bantering, reckless way that was new to him, "the battle with the beaux whom you are going to slay."

He felt as if he could have bitten his tongue off the next moment, as he saw the look of pain she gave him.

"What have I done?" she said in a soft, low, half-passionate tone.

"Done! What do you mean?"

"Why do you take pleasure in laughing at me and mocking me?"

"Oh, nonsense!" he cried. "I was only speaking lightly."

"Why should you speak lightly to me?" she said. "We have lived in the same house now for over a year, and, instead of being neighbours and friends, there always seems to be a great gap between us."

"Why, what a sentimental view you take of things," he said. "We shake hands when we meet. We smile at one another, and nod and chat."

"Yes," she said sadly, "we shake hands, we smile at each other, we nod and chat, but--"

She stopped and seemed to try and command herself; and, to his great relief, she spoke lightly as she said:

"I shall see you to-night, of course?"

"No; I thought you were going to a party."

"Yes, but you will be there?"

"No," he said gravely; "I am not going."

"Not going!" she cried. "Why, you were asked."

"How do you know?"

She turned crimson, and avoided his searching look.

"Did Mrs Pontardent tell you?"

"Yes, and you will go?"

"No," he said; "I declined. Why was I asked--do you know?"

She darted an appealing look at him; and the haughty, self-assertive woman seemed to be completely changed.

"Don't--don't be angry with me," she said. "I--I thought it would be so pleasant if you were going to be there."

"You never asked that woman to invite me, Miss Dean?"

She did not speak, but her face began to work, her hands dropped in her lap, her head drooped upon her chest, and she wept bitterly.

"Oh, Miss Dean, for heaven's sake don't do that," he said. "I hate to see a woman cry. I can't bear it. Pray forgive me if I spoke harshly. I could not help feeling annoyed that you should have done this."

"You ought to be grateful," she cried passionately. "The woman you love so dearly will be there with gay Major Rockley--oh, Mr Linnell-- Richard--for heaven's sake forgive me. What have I said--what have I done?"

In her alarm at the start he gave, and at his ghastly face, she let fall the reins and caught at his arm, when the ponies, feeling their heads free, dashed off; but this brought Linnell back to the present, and with one bound he reached the rein, hung on to it, and was dragged along for a few yards, turning the ponies' heads towards a steep bank by the side of the narrow unfrequented road. The result would have been that he would have been crushed between the chaise and the bank, but for Cora's presence of mind in seizing the other rein and dragging at it with all her might.

As it was, he received a violent kick which turned him sick and faint, and when he came to, the ponies' reins were secured to a tree in the hedge, and he was lying upon the grass, with Cora's arm supporting his head, and her frightened face bending over him.

"What is it?" he cried sharply. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she said softly. "Don't move. How brave you are!"

He looked at her wonderingly, and then flushing once more, he recalled the whole scene, and what led to it.

"I was afraid you were hurt," he said, trying to rise; but the giddy feeling came back, and he sank down again.

"You are hurt," she cried. "What shall I do? Richard--dear Richard! He's dying. Oh, my love--my love!"

"Hush!" he cried huskily, as she was raising his head in her arms; "for God's sake don't speak to me like that. There--there--you see I am better. The pony kicked me. It made my head swim. There," he cried, rising to his knees, "you see it is all right. I quite frightened you."

He stood up now and offered her his hand to rise; but she did not take it, for she covered her face with her hands and crouched lower and lower on her knees, sobbing wildly in a passion of grief, for his words had been as cold and distant as if they had been strangers.

"Miss Dean--Miss Dean--pray let me help you to your carriage," he said; but she shrank from him.