"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, "you _are_ a 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 XVI.