CLAIRE’S CONFESSION.
Bram held the hand of his dead friend for some minutes, not daring to
tell the father that all was over. But Mr. Cornthwaite suddenly became
aware of the truth. He started to his feet with a cry, beckoning to
the doctor, who had stepped back a few paces, knowing that he could do
nothing more.
“He has fainted again!” cried Mr. Cornthwaite. But Bram knew that the
unhappy man was only trying to deceive himself. The doctor’s look, as
he knelt down once more by the body of Christian, made Mr. Cornthwaite
turn abruptly away. Bram, who had stepped back in his turn, carried
that scene in his eyes for weeks afterwards--the shed where they all
stood, the silent machinery making odd shapes in the background. The
dead body of Christian on the ground, with his face upturned, the crowd
of figures around, all very still, very silent, the only two whose
movements broke up the picture being Mr. Cornthwaite and the doctor. A
flaring gas jet above their heads showed up the white face of the dead
man, the grave and anxious countenances of the rest.
Quite suddenly there appeared in the group another figure--that of
Claire. They all stared at her in silence. She seemed, Bram thought, to
be absolutely unconscious of what had happened until she caught sight
of the body of her cousin. Then, with a low cry, like a long sob, she
put her hands to her face, covering her eyes, turned quickly, and ran
away.
Mr. Cornthwaite, however, had seen her, and, his face darkening with
terrible anger, he followed her rapidly with an oath. Anxious and
alarmed, Bram followed in his turn. The girl had not much of a start,
and although she was fleet of foot, Mr. Cornthwaite, with his superior
knowledge of the works, gained upon her rapidly, and would have seized
her roughly by the arm if Bram had not interposed his own person
between them, giving the girl an opportunity of escape, of which she
availed herself with great adroitness.
“Elshaw!” cried Mr. Cornthwaite in astonishment. A moment later he went
on in a transport of anger--“How dare you stop me? You have let her
get away, you have helped her, the vile wretch who has killed my son!
But don’t think that she shall escape punishment. You can’t save her;
nobody shall. She has murdered my son, and----”
“Not murdered, sir,” cried Bram quickly. “It was an accident--a ghastly
accident. The girl is dazed with what has happened. She hardly knows
herself. Pray, don’t speak to her now. It is inhuman--inhuman. She
is suffering more than even you can do. Give her a chance to recover
herself before you speak to her.”
Mr. Cornthwaite freed himself with a jerk from Bram’s restraining hand.
But Claire had disappeared.
“Well, she’s got away this time, but your interference won’t save her
much longer. My son--to be killed--by a jade like that! My God! My God!”
He had broken down quite suddenly, overcome by an overwhelming sense
of his loss. Although he had never been a very tender or a very
indulgent father, he had loved his son more than he himself knew. He
recognized, now that Christian lay dead, what hopes, what ambitions had
been bound up in him. Even the works, the true darling of his heart,
seemed suddenly to become a mere worthless toy when he realized that
with himself would die the interest of his family in the enterprise he
had founded. He had imagined that he should see his descendants sitting
in his own place in the office, carrying on the work he had begun. Now,
in one short hour, his hopes and dreams were demolished. Nothing was
left to him but revenge upon the woman who had taken the color out of
his life by killing his son.
Bram was awed by the depth of his so suddenly manifested despair. He
felt with a most true instinct that there were no words in the human
tongue which could do any good to the miserable man. He could only
stand by, in solemn silence, while Mr. Cornthwaite put his head down
between his hands, drawing long sobbing breaths of grief and despair.
But presently the doctor, who was an old friend of Mr. Cornthwaite’s,
came in search of him, and put his hand through his arm. Then Bram
stole quietly away, and went in search of poor Claire.
He had not to go far. He had not, indeed, walked twenty paces, when,
turning a corner among the innumerable buildings which formed the great
works, he came upon her, standing, like a lost child, with her arms
down at her sides, and her head bent a little downwards. As soon as he
appeared she turned to accompany him without a word, much as a dog does
that has been waiting for its master.
This change in the spirited girl to such a helpless, docile creature,
frightened Bram even more than it touched him. He felt that some great,
some awful change, must have taken place in the girl who was too proud
to allow him to enter her father’s house. Was it the feeling of the
awful thing she had done, of the vengeance she had drawn down upon
herself which had brought about the change?
He could not see her face. She walked beside him in silence till they
came to the gate of the works, and there she stopped for a moment to
look through the door by which Christian had come out with her an hour
before. And then in the gaslight Bram saw her face at last, read the
very thoughts which were passing in her mind--remembrance, remorse--the
horror of it all. But she uttered no word, no cry. With a shudder she
passed out, putting her hands up to her eyes as if to shut out the
terrible pictures her brain conjured up.
Bram followed her, at first without speaking. She did not seem to know
that he was beside her; at least she never looked at him, never spoke
to him. He, on his side, while longing to say some kindly word, was
afraid of waking her old pride, of being told to go about his business,
if he broke the spell of silence which hung over them both.
So, as silent as the dead, they walked on side by side through the
crowded streets, with the groups of rough factory hands, of grinders,
of lassies with shawls round their heads, extending far over the road.
A drizzling rain had begun to fall, and the stones of the streets were
slimy, slippery and black. Claire went straight on through the crowds,
threading her way deftly enough, but mechanically, and without turning
her head. Bram following always. A vivid remembrance flashed into his
mind of the previous occasion on which he had followed her, when Mr.
Cornthwaite had told him to see her home from Holme Park, and she
had dashed out of the house like an arrow to escape the infliction.
Unconscious of his proximity she had been then; unconscious she seemed
to be now.
When she reached the hill near the summit of which the farmhouse stood,
however, her strength seemed suddenly to desert her; the slight,
over-taxed frame became momentarily unequal to its task, and she
staggered against the stone wall which fenced the field she had to
pass through. Then Bram came up, and, after standing beside her a few
moments without speaking, and without eliciting a word from her, he
drew her hand through his arm, and led her onwards up the hill.
It was now dark, with the pitchy blackness of a wet, moonless night.
The ground was slippery with rain, and the ascent would have been
toilsome in the extreme to the girl’s weary little body but for Bram’s
timely help. So tired was she that before they reached the farmhouse
gates Bram put his arm round her waist, and more than half-carried her
without a word of protest.
There was no light in the front of the farmhouse; but when they got
to the gate of the farmyard, through which it was Claire’s custom to
enter, they saw a light in the kitchen window; and when they opened the
door Joan jumped up from a seat near the big deal table.
“Eh, Miss Claire, but Ah thowt ye was lost!” cried she. Then at once
realizing that something untoward had happened, she glanced at Bram,
who shook his head to intimate that she had better ask no questions.
“Where’s my father?” asked Claire at once, drawing her arm away from
that of Bram, and stopping short in the middle of the floor at the same
time.
“He’s gone oop to t’ Park,” said Joan, with a look at Bram as much as
to say there was no help for it, and the truth must come out.
Claire, sinking on the nearest chair, uttered a short, hollow laugh.
Joan, who had been waiting with her bonnet on for Claire’s return,
hardly knew what to do. She saw that the young girl was ill and
desperately tired, and, on the other hand, she was anxious to get back
to her own good-man and to her little ones. In her perplexity she
looked at Bram, the faithful friend, whom she was heartily glad to see
admitted again.
“Ah doan’t suppose Mr. Biron’ll be long coming back,” she said. “If Ah
was to make ye both a coop o’ tea, Mr. Elshaw, and then run back to my
home for an hour, would you stay here till Ah coom back? Ah’d give a
look in to see all was reght. She doan’t look as if she ought to spend
t’ neght by herself.”
This was said in a low voice to Bram, whom she had beckoned to the door
of the back kitchen, while Claire remained in the same attitude of
deep depression at the table.
“No,” said he at once. “She mustn’t be left alone to-night. I’ll stay
till you come back, whether her father comes back before then or not.
She’s had a great shock--an awful shock. But,” and he glanced back at
the motionless girl, “I won’t tell you about it now. And you can go
now. You needn’t trouble about the tea; I’ll make it.”
Joan looked at him, and then at Claire with round, apprehensive eyes.
“Will she let ye stay?” she asked, in a dubious whisper.
“Poor child, yes. She’s almost forgotten who I am.”
But Claire had lifted up her head, and was rising to come towards them.
Bram dismissed Joan by a look, and she slipped out by the back way, and
left the two together.
Claire followed Joan with dull eyes as the good woman, with a series of
affectionate little smiles and nods, went out, shutting the door behind
her. Then she remained staring at the closed door, while Bram, without
taking any notice of her, went quietly across to the cupboard where the
tea was kept, took out the tea-caddy, and put the kettle on the fire to
boil. She did not interrupt him, and when he glanced at her again he
saw that she had sunk down again in her chair, and had dropped her head
heavily upon her hands, leaning on the table drowsily.
Presently she made a little moaning noise, and began to move her head
restlessly from side to side. Bram put a cup of tea down in front of
her, and said gently--
“Got a headache, Miss Claire?”
She raised her head as if it was a weight too heavy for her to lift
without difficulty.
“Oh, Bram, it’s so bad, worse than I’ve ever had before,” said she
plaintively.
In her eyes there was no longer any grief; only a dull sense of great
physical pain. She seemed to have forgotten everything but that
burning, leaden weight at her own temples.
“Will you drink this, and then lie down for a little while?” asked he.
With the same absolute docility that she had shown to him all the
evening, she took the cup from his hands, and tried to drink. But she
seemed unable to swallow, and in a few moments he had to take it from
her, lest her trembling hands should let it drop on the floor.
“Now, you had better lie down,” said he. “Come into the drawing-room;
there’s a fire there. I saw it flickering as we came along. If you lie
down on the sofa till Joan comes back, she’ll take you upstairs and put
you to bed.”
He saw that she had no strength left to do anything for herself. She
got up as obediently as ever; but when she reached the door a fit of
shivering seized her. She staggered, fell back, and whispered as Bram
caught her--
“No. Don’t make me go in there. Let me stay here.”
There was an old broken-down horsehair covered sofa against the wall
in the big kitchen, and Bram hastened to make it as comfortable as
he could by bringing the cushions from the drawing-room. Before he
had finished his preparations she complained of feeling giddy; and no
longer doubting that she was on the verge of being seriously ill, Bram
led her to the sofa, and going quickly to the outer door looked out
in hope of finding some one whom he could send for the doctor. He was
unsuccessful, however; the rain was coming down more heavily than ever,
and there was not a living creature in sight. The farm hands lived in
the cottages at the top of the hill, and Bram did not dare to leave
Claire by herself now that the torpor in which she had come home was
beginning to give place to a feverish restlessness. So he shut the
door, and seeing that Claire’s eyes were closed, he began to hope that
she had fallen asleep, and crossed the floor with very soft steps to
his old place by the fire.
A strange vigil this! By the side of the woman who had been so much
to him, who, even now that she had lost the lofty place she had once
held in his imagination, seemed to have crept in so doing even closer
into his heart. So, at least, the chivalrous man felt now that, by an
act of mad, inconceivable folly and rashness, Claire had endangered
her own liberty, and perhaps even her life. For that Mr. Cornthwaite
would press his conviction that the act was murder Bram could not
doubt. Hating the very sound of the girl’s name as he had long done,
believing that Christian’s attachment for her had been the cause of his
estrangement from his wife, of his entire ruin, it was not likely that
he, a hard man naturally, would flinch in his pursuit of the woman to
whom he imputed so much evil.
And Bram hardly blamed him for it. He would not have had him feel the
loss of his son one whit less than he did; he knew what pangs those
must be which pierced the heart of the bereaved father. Bram himself
felt for both of them; for Mr. Cornthwaite and for Claire. Her he
excused in the full belief that her sufferings had brought on an attack
of frenzy in which she was wholly unaccountable for her actions. How
else was it possible to explain the bewildered horror of her look and
attitude when called to Christian’s side by the dying man himself? And
had not Chris, in his words, in his manner to her, absolved her from
all blame? Not one word of reproach had he uttered, even while he lay
dying a fearful death as the result of her frenzied attack! Surely
there was exoneration of her in this fact? Bram felt that this was the
point he must press upon the aggrieved father.
As this thought passed through his mind, and instantly became a
resolve, Bram raised his head quickly, and was struck with something
like horror to find that Claire was sitting up, resting her whole body
on her arms, and staring at him with glittering eyes.
As these met his own astonished look, she smiled at him with a strange
sweetness which made him suddenly want to spring up and take her in his
arms. Instead of that, he rose slowly, and advancing towards the sofa
with a hesitating, creeping step, asked gently if she wanted anything.
She shook her head, smiling still; and then she put out one hand to
him. He took it; the skin was hot and dry. Her lips, he now perceived,
looked dry and parched.
“Bram,” she said in her old voice, bright and soft and clear, “I
forget. What day is it we are to be married?”
Bram stood beside her, holding her hand, such a terrible rush of
mingled feelings thronging, surging into his heart that he was as
incapable of speech as if he had been a dumb man. She looked at him
with the same gentle smile, inquiringly. Presently, as he still kept
silence, she said--
“It seems a strange thing to have forgotten. But was it Tuesday?”
Bram nodded slowly, as if the head he bent had been weighted with lead.
Then she drew her hand out of his with a contented sigh, and fell back
on the couch. Again she closed her eyes, and again Bram, who was in a
tumult of feelings he could not have described, of which the dominant
was pain, cruel, inextinguishable pain, hoped that she was asleep. He
sat down on a chair near her, and watched her face. It was perfectly
calm, peaceful, and sweet for some minutes. Then a slight look of
trouble came over it, and she opened her eyes again.
“Bram,” she called out in a voice of alarm. Then perceiving him close
to her, she drew a breath of relief, and stretched out her hand to him.
“It’s so strange,” she went on, with glittering eyes. “Whenever I shut
my eyes I have horrible dreams of papa, always papa! Where is he? Is he
here? Is he safe?”
Bram patted her hot, twitching hand reassuringly.
“He is quite safe, I’ve no doubt,” he said. “He’s gone out, and he
hasn’t come back yet.”
Claire stared at him inquiringly, and frowned as if in perplexity.
“But what has happened?” she asked. “Why does everything seem so
strange? Your voice, and the ticking of the clock, and my own voice
too--they sound quite different! And my head--oh, it aches so! Have I
been ill? Where’s Joan?”
She wandered on thus so quickly from one subject to another that Bram
was saved the trouble of finding answers to any of her questions except
the last.
“Joan will be back in a little while,” said he. “She’s gone home to see
to her children. But she won’t be long.”
“Is she coming back to-night? Why is she coming back to-night?”
“Well, to look after you.”
“Then I have been ill?”
“You’re not very well now,” said Bram gently.
“Why not? Something has happened? Won’t you tell me what it is?”
There was a pause. Then she gave his hand an affectionate, clinging
pressure.
“Never mind, Bram. You needn’t tell me unless you like. I don’t mind
anything when you’re here. You won’t go away, will you?”
The loving tone, the caressing manner, stirred his heart to the
depths. Surely this tender trust was her own real feeling for him,
suddenly revealed, free from all restraints of prudence, of necessary
coldness. What did it mean? Was this the woman who had ruined her
life for another man, this girl who looked at him with innocent eyes
full of love, who seemed to be thrilled with pleasure at the touch
of his fingers? Was this the woman who had struggled with Christian
in the shadow of the great works two hours before, whose mad passion
of hate and revenge had given her fragile limbs power to fling him
down on the railway line? Bram sat in a state of wild revolt from
the terrible ideas, which had, indeed, till that moment seemed real,
inevitable enough. What was the miracle that had happened? What was the
explanation of it all? While he still asked himself those questions,
with his head on fire, his heart nigh to bursting, the soft, girlish
voice spoke again.
“Bram, what was the difficulty? There was a difficulty, wasn’t there?
Only I can’t remember what it was. Why was it that you stayed away?
That you didn’t come here as you used to? You don’t know what a long
time it seemed, and how I used to long for you to come back again!
Why, I used to watch for you when I knew it was time for you to go
past, and I used to kiss my hand to you behind the curtains, so that
you couldn’t see me! But why--why didn’t I want you to see me, Bram? I
can’t remember.”
“Oh, my darling!” burst from Bram’s lips in spite of himself.
That one word was answer enough for her. She smiled happily up into his
face, and closed her eyes, as if it hurt her to keep them open, the
lids falling heavily. Bram wished--he almost prayed--that they could
both die that moment; that neither might ever have to live through
the terrible time which was in store for them. The delirium which had
so mercifully descended upon her overwrought mind had shut out the
horrible secrets of the past from Claire.
As Bram sat, as still as a statue lest he should disturb her by a
movement, he heard the sound of footsteps outside, and a moment later
the door was burst open, and Mr. Biron, pale, haggard, dripping with
rain, begrimed with mud, a horrible spectacle of fear and terror, stole
into the room, and shutting the door, bolted it, and then sank in a
heap on the floor, with his eyes turned in a ghastly panic of alarm
towards the window.