Claire winced again, and involuntarily glanced at the door, repenting
that she had come, as she saw Mrs Barclay frown and make a series of
grimaces at her lord, all of which were peculiar enough to a stranger,
but which simply meant to the initiated: "Go away and leave us together:
I can manage her better than I could if you stayed here."
Barclay comprehended from old experience all that his wife meant to
signify, and, making some excuse, he shortly left the room.
"There, that's right, my dear," said Mrs Barclay warmly. "Men are such
a nuisance when you want to have a nice cosy chat. Why dear, dear,
dear, how white you look. Your bonny face oughtn't to be like that.
You've been wherriting yourself over something. It isn't money, is it?"
"No, Mrs Barclay, we seem to have been a little better off lately."
"But you are in trouble, my darling? Now don't say you aren't, but
speak out plain to me. Oh, I wish I could make you believe that I am a
very, very true friend, and that I want to help you. There, I know:
you've been falling out with Cora Dean."
Mrs Barclay prided herself on this as being a master stroke of policy
to draw Claire out and make her ready to confide in her; but Claire
shook her head and smiled sadly.
"No," she said dreamily, "I am not in trouble about that. I thought I
would call and see you to-day. There, I must go now."
"Is that all?" said Mrs Barclay in a disappointed tone. "Why, I was in
hopes that you were over head and ears in trouble, and had come to me
for help."
"Mrs Barclay!" exclaimed Claire.
"No, no, no, my dear. What a stupid old woman I am! I didn't mean
that, but if you were in trouble, I hoped that, seeing how much you are
alone, you had come to me for help and advice."
Claire's face worked and her lips quivered. She vainly tried to speak,
and finally, utterly broken-down with the agony of her encounters on the
previous day with Louis and her sister, with the following sleepless
night and the despair of the present day, during which she had been
vainly striving to see some way out of the difficulty, she threw herself
upon the breast offered to receive her troubles and sobbed aloud.
"I knew--I knew," whispered Mrs Barclay, soothing and caressing the
poor girl by turns. "I knew as well as if some one had told me that you
were in trouble and wanted help. There, there, cry away, my darling.
Have a good long patient one, and don't hurry yourself. You'll be a
world better afterwards; and if you like then to tell me about it, why,
you see, you can, and if you don't like to, why, there's no harm done."
Even if the amiable plump old soul had said nothing more than the first
sympathising words, Claire's emotion, so long pent up, would now have
had its vent, the tears seeming to relieve her overburdened brain as she
clung to her hostess, listening, and yet only half hearing her whispered
words.
It was perhaps as well, for with all its true-heartedness there was a
comic side to Mrs Barclay's well-meant sympathy; and some of her
adjurations to "cry away," and not to "stop it," and the like, would
have provoked a smile from anyone who had been present at the scene.
"There, there, there, then, that's better," cried Mrs Barclay, beaming
in Claire's face and kissing her tenderly. "Now you'll be comfortable
again; and now, my dear child, we're all alone, and if you like to make
a confidant of me, you shall find you can trust me as much as my
Jo-si-ah can. But don't you think I'm a scandal-loving old busybody, my
dear, for I don't ask you to tell me anything."
"You are always so good to me, Mrs Barclay," sighed Claire, clinging to
the ample breast.
"Oh, nonsense, my dear. I only offer to be your confidant, so as to
help you in your trouble. For you are in trouble, my dear--dreadful
trouble, and it hurts me to see you so--hurts me, my dear, more than you
think for, so what I say is--If it does you good to come and sit with me
and be comforted by having a good cry over me, just as if you were my
little girl, why you shall, and I shan't ask you a single question; but
if you think such a silly stout old woman can do you any good by giving
you advice, or--now don't be offended--finding you money; or by asking
my Jo-si-ah what to do--"
"Mrs Barclay!" cried Claire in tones of dismay, and with her cheeks
flushing.
"Ah, that's the way of the world, my dear," said Mrs Barclay with a
quiet contented smile, as she drew Claire's head back upon her shoulder,
and stroked and patted her cheek. "You don't know my Jo-si-ah. He
seems a rough harsh-spoken old money-grubber, but he's the
tenderest-hearted, most generous man that ever lived. There, there, you
needn't speak. I was only going to finish and say Claire Denville has
two true friends here in this house; and as for me, here I am, ready to
help you in any way, for I believe in you, my dear, in spite of
everything that has been said, as being as good a girl as ever
breathed."
"Heaven bless you!" exclaimed Claire, nestling to her; "you are a true
friend, and I will tell you all my trouble."
"That's right, my dear, so you shall, and two heads are better than one.
Shall I help you?"
"Oh, yes, yes, Mrs Barclay, if you can. I am so helpless, so weak with
this new trouble, I don't know what to do."
"No; and you'll be driving yourself half crazy, my dear," whispered Mrs
Barclay. "Why, I know as well as can be what it is."
"You know, Mrs Barclay?"
"To be sure I do, my dear. Now, why not let me ask him here some day,
and just talk the matter quietly over with him?"
"Yes, yes," cried Claire; "but he is so impetuous, and the situation is
so horrible."
"Not a bit of it, my dear. Of course, he is impetuous. Enough, to make
him, hearing such things as he does; but just you let me get him here
some day and have a chat with him, and then you see him, and try and
understand each other. Never mind about the money, my dear: be poor and
happy. Love's better than riches; and the happiness enjoyed by two good
people who really care for each other is--well, I don't want to be
single."
"Mrs Barclay! What do you mean?"
"Why, that with all his doubts and distances, Richard Linnell worships
you as much as you love him."
"Oh, hush, hush, hush!" cried Claire piteously. "Don't talk about that,
Mrs Barclay. It is impossible."
"It isn't, my dear, and that's flat. You're being cruel to him, and
more cruel to your own dear self. Come, now, try and be advised."
"Mrs Barclay," cried Claire wildly, "you don't know. My trouble now is
far greater than anything about self;" and, clinging to the only friend
she seemed to have, she told her all.
Mrs Barclay sat with wide-open eyes to the very end, and then, in the
midst of the terrible silence, she took out a violently-scented
pocket-handkerchief, and wiped the dew from her brow, as she said
softly:
"Oh, my gracious me!"
"It has driven me nearly mad," cried Claire, wringing her hands, "and
while I stay here something terrible may have happened. I must go--I
must go."
"No, no; sit still, my dear," cried Mrs Barclay, drawing her back to
her side, and speaking in a quick, businesslike way. "I was quite
knocked over by what you said. My poor, dear child! Is there to be no
end to your troubles? But there, we mustn't talk nonsense, but act
sensibly. This is like a smash--a sort of bankruptcy, only it's what
Jo-si-ah would call social and not monetary. There, there, it's a
terrible business, but I'm glad you've had the courage to tell me. Oh,
my dear, I've always said to Jo-si-ah that she was a wicked little thing
who was getting you into trouble. But let that go. Now, then, what to
do first? Your poor father don't know a word?"
"I have not dared to tell him."
"No, and you've been screening her, and taking care of that little one,
and--dear--dear--what a world this is! Tut--tut--tut! I am doing
nothing but talk. Now, look here, Claire; the first thing that strikes
me is that she must be got away--right away--for the present."
"Yes, yes; but how?" cried Claire.
"Jo-si-ah shall settle that."
"Mr Barclay!" cried Claire in terror.
"To be sure, my dear. We want a strong man to act in a case like this.
Your sister must be got away somewhere, and you must go with her. You
had both better go to-night. No one shall know where you are but
Jo-si-ah and me, and you can take care of her until Jo-si-ah has told
your father all about it."
"Yes," sighed Claire, as her companion's calm, businesslike manner
impressed her.
"If we tell him first he will do no good, poor man, only be horribly
upset, and there'll be no end of scenes, and no business done."
Claire acquiesced with a look.
"Then Jo-si-ah can settle it all with your father and Mr Burnett, and
this Mr Gravani, what is to be done in a businesslike way. There,
there, let me finish. The weak little thing has got herself into this
dreadful tangle, and what we have to do is to get her out the best way
we can. It's of no use to be sentimental and sit down and cry; we must
act like women."
Claire looked at her in admiration, astounded by her friend's calm,
businesslike manner.
"Now, perhaps, my dear, my Jo-si-ah may upset all my plans by proposing
something better; but, as far as I see it now, you had better go
straight off to your sister May--it will soon be dusk--and bring her
here. I'll be ready and waiting, and I'll go with you both to the
coach. You had better put on veils, and we'll go right away to London.
It's the best place to hide, as my Jo-si-ah knows with the people who
don't pay him. Yes, that's best. I'll go with you."
"You will go with us, Mrs Barclay?"
"Of course, I shall, my dear, and stay with you till you're out of your
trouble, and Jo-si-ah has finished the business. Did you think I was a
fine-weather friend?"
Claire could not speak; her kisses and clinging arms spoke her thanks.
"Yes, that's as far as I can see it, and we must be quick."
She rose to go to the bell.
"What are you going to do?" cried Claire, in alarm.
"Ring for Jo-si-ah, and to send our Joseph to book three seats for the
coach."
"But Mr Barclay? Must you tell him--now?" faltered Claire.
"Why, of course, my dear, or we may be too late. Do you know that some
one else is evidently making plans?"
"What do you mean?" cried Claire excitedly.
"We know a great deal here, my dear. My husband has to keep an eye upon
the slippery people who borrow money of him; and there was a hint
brought here to-day that a certain gentleman was going to elope to-night
with a certain lady, and the idea was that you were the lady. We know
it was Sir Harry Payne."
Claire caught at her friend's arm as she went on.
"But I said `No;' it is only a miserable scandal, based upon that
wretched business at your house. `It's Mrs Burnett,' I said, `if it's
anyone.' Claire, my dear, she is in this dreadful fix, and she is going
off to-night with that fop to escape from it."
Claire's lips parted as she looked at the speaker in horror, realising
it all now, and reading May's excuse to gain time.
For a moment the deceit and cruelty of the act seemed too horrible; but
she was now thoroughly realising the nature of her sister, and was so
agitated that she felt almost paralysed as she stood gazing straight
before her.
"I cannot believe it, Mrs Barclay," she said at last. "It is too
terrible. My poor sister would never be so base."
"Go at once, my dear. Stand no nonsense with the little thing. I'll
settle it all with my Jo-si-ah. You bring her here."
Claire was white as ashes now, as she caught Mrs Barclay's hands and
kissed them.
"No, no, my dear; not my hands. There, go, and heaven bless you. We'll
help you through it, never fear."
She folded Claire in her arms for a moment, and then hurried with her
downstairs, and let her out.
"One moment, my dear," she whispered, detaining her, to thrust her purse
in her hand. "Stop for nothing. Bring her here; drag her if she says
she will not come. Say anything, but bring her here."
"Ah!" sighed Mrs Barclay, as she watched Claire disappear down the
street, and then closed the door. "Now for Jo-si-ah."
Volume Three, Chapter V.