"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.