Josiah Barclay was in his business room when his wife returned, panting
and wiping her eyes, and he gave her one of his grim looks.
"Well, old woman, I was right, wasn't I?"
"No, Jo-si-ah."
"Then you didn't get it all out of her?"
"Oh, yes, everything, dear. She told me all, and it is that wicked--
wicked little woman, May."
She told him all that had passed, and he stood and stared at her,
blowing out his cheeks, and then looking his hardest.
"Let me see," he said, when she had done speaking. "May Burnett is, of
course, my own child by my first wife."
"Jo-si-ah! Why, you never had no first wife."
"Nonsense, woman."
"Nonsense, Jo-si-ah! Do you mean to tell me--now, how can you? Why,
we've been married over thirty years, and that wicked little hussy isn't
above twenty. How can you talk such stuff?"
"You set me going," he said grimly. "You talked as if May Burnett must
be my own flesh and blood."
"I didn't, Jo-si-ah. What do you mean?"
"Why you want me to mix myself up in this miserable scandal over a
wretched, frivolous, heartless wench, spend my hard-earned money, and
let you go off on a sort of wild goose chase with her and Claire
Denville. I thought you had found out that she really was my own flesh
and blood."
Mrs Barclay wiped her eyes, and indulged in one of her laughs--a
blancmange sort of laugh--as she sat back in the chair vibrating and
undulating all over, while her husband watched her with the most
uncompromising of aspects till she rose.
"What a man you are," she said at last. "But there, don't let's waste
time. You will help us, dear, won't you?"
"Us?"
"Yes; _us_, Josiah. Don't you think what I have proposed is the best?"
"Well, yes," he said slowly. "I do not think I could suggest anything
better."
"I _am_ glad," she said. "Then send Joseph at once, and take three
seats for London."
"You mean to go, then?"
"Yes, dear, of course."
"And what's to become of me?"
"You will stop and see Mr Burnett, and this Mr Gravani, and poor Mr
Denville, and settle the matter the best way you can."
"For May Burnett's sake?"
"No, dear: for mine and poor Claire Denville's; and look here, Jo-si-ah,
you just beg her pardon, sir."
"If I do I'll be--"
"Hush! Stop, sir. I don't mean to her. Now, just you own that you
have misjudged her."
"Humph! Well, perhaps I have."
"That's right, dear; and you will do your best now, won't you?"
"I tell you what, woman; I've read about men being fooled by their wives
and turned round the thumb; but the way you turn me round beats
everything I ever did read."
"Yes," she said, nestling to his side. "I like turning you round my
thumb, dear; and let's always go on to the end just the same, Jo-si-ah;
and you'll let me try to do some good."
"Humph!" ejaculated Barclay, in his grimmest manner. "But, don't you
see, old lady, that this May Burnett is a worthless sort of baggage?"
"I can't see anything, dear, only that poor Claire Denville, whom I love
very much, is in great trouble, and that we are wasting time."
"Wasting love, you mean," cried Barclay. "If you've got so much love to
spare, why don't you pour it on my devoted head, to wash away some of
the hate which people bestow upon me?"
"Jo-si-ah dear! Please."
"All right," he said grimly. "I'll do it, old lady. Let's see; the
coach goes at half-past eleven. You've plenty of time. I'll send
Joseph. But tell me, where are you going?"
"To the Bell, in Holborn, dear, for the first day. Then I shall take
apartments somewhere till it is all settled."
"But the expense, woman?"
"I've plenty of jewels, dear. Shall I sell something?"
"Yes, you'd better!" he said grimly. "There, I suppose you must do as
you like."
She nodded and kissed him affectionately, while he seemed to look less
firm in the pleasant light shed by her eyes as he handed her the keys of
his cash-box.
"Now then, dear," she said, "business. Bless us! Who's that?"
There was a sharp rolling knock at the door, and they stood listening.
"I hope we're not too late, dear," whispered Mrs Barclay excitedly.
"Denville's voice for a guinea," cried Barclay.
"Then you can tell him all, and you two can go and stop any attempt the
silly little woman may make to run away."
"Mr Denville, sir," said Joseph, ushering in the Master of the
Ceremonies, very pale and careworn under his smiling guise, as he minced
into the room, hat in one hand, snuff-box in the other, and his cane
hanging by its silken cord and tassels from his wrist.
"My dear Mrs Barclay, your very humble servant. My dear Barclay,
yours. It seems an age since we met."
"Oh, poor dear man!" sighed Mrs Barclay to herself. "He can't know a
word."
She exchanged glances with Barclay, who gave her a nod.
"You will excuse me, Mr Denville," she said. "A little business to
attend to. I'll come back and see you before you go."
"I should apologise," said Denville, smiling and bowing as he hastened
to open the door for her to pass out; and as he closed it he groaned as
he said to himself:
"She does not ask after my children."
"Sit down, Denville," said Barclay; "you've come to pay me some money,
eh?"
"Well--er--the fact is--no, Barclay, not just at present. I must ask
you to give me a little more time. Morton, my son, you see, is only
just launched. He is getting on, but at present I must ask a little
forbearance. Interest, of course, but you will wait a little longer?"
"Humph! Well, I suppose I must, and--come, Denville, out with it.
What's the matter, man? Some fresh trouble?"
Denville had been playing uneasily with his snuff-box, and taking up and
setting down his hat, glancing nervously about the room. As Barclay
spoke in this abrupt way to him, he started and stared wildly at the
speaker.
"Oh! nothing, nothing," he said, smiling. "I was only coming this way.
Ha--ha--ha! my dear Barclay, you thought I wanted a little
accommodation. No, no, not this time. The fact is, I understood that
my daughter, Miss Denville, had come on here. I expected to find her
with Mrs Barclay--a lady I esteem--a lady of whom my daughter always
speaks most warmly. Has she--er--has she called here this evening?"
"Miss Denville was here a short time since."
"And has gone?" said Denville nervously. "She--she--is coming back
here?"
"I think so. Yes, I believe my wife said she was; but, hang it,
Denville, why don't you speak out, man? What's the matter? Perhaps I
can help you."
"Help me?" faltered the miserable man. "No; it is not a case where
money could assist me."
"Money, sir! I offered the help of a friend," said Barclay warmly.
"Come, speak out. You are in trouble."
Denville looked at him hesitatingly, but did not speak.
"I don't ask for your confidence," said Barclay, "but you have done me
more than one good turn, Denville, and I want to help you if I can."
Still the old man hesitated; but at last he seemed to master his
hesitation, and, catching the other's sleeve, he whispered:
"A scandalous place, my dear Barclay. I used to smile at these things,
but of late my troubles have a good deal broken me down. I am changed.
I know everybody, but I have no friends, and--there, I confess it, I
came to speak to your wife, to ask her advice and help, for at times I
feel as if the kindly words and interest of some true woman would make
my load easier to bear."
"Nothing like a good friend," said Barclay gruffly.
"Yes--exactly. You'll pardon me, Barclay; you have been very kind, but
your manner does not invite confidence. I feel that I cannot speak to
you as I could wish."
"Try," said Barclay, taking his hand. "Come, you are in trouble about
your daughter."
"Yes," cried Denville quickly. "How did you know?"
"Never mind how I know. Now then, speak out, what do _you_ know?"
"Only that there is some fresh gossip afloat, mixing up my daughter's
name with that of one of the reckless fops of this place."
"Claire Denville's?"
"Yes, my dear sir. It is most cruel. These people do not think of the
agony it causes those who love their children. I heard that my child
had come here--ah, here is Mrs Barclay back. My dear madam, I came to
bear my daughter company home, to stay with her, and to show these
wretched scandal-mongers that there is no truth in the story that has
been put about."
"Have you told him, Jo-si-ah?"
"No, madam," cried Denville; "there was no need. Some cruel enemy
contrived that I should hear of it--this wretched scandal. But you'll
pardon me--the lies, the contemptible falsehoods of the miserable idlers
who find pleasure in such stories. My daughter Claire has been maligned
before. She can bear it again, and by her sweet truthfulness live down
all such falsities."
"But, Mr Denville!" cried Mrs Barclay.
"Hush, ma'am, pray. A father's feelings. You'll pardon me. We can
scorn these wretched attacks. My child Claire is above them. I shall
take no notice; I wished, however, to be by her side. She will return
here, you say?"
"Yes, yes, my dear good man," cried Mrs Barclay; "but you are blinding
yourself to the truth."
"No, ma'am, you'll pardon me. My eyes have long been open to the truth.
I know. They say that my dear child Claire is to elope to-night with
Sir Harry Payne. I had a letter from some busybody to that effect; but
it is not true. I say it is not true."
"No, Mr Denville, it is not true," cried Mrs Barclay warmly. "Our
dear Claire--your dear Claire--is too good a girl, and the wretches who
put this about ought to be punished. It is not dear Claire who is
believed to be going to-night, but--"
"You'll pardon me," cried Denville, turning greyer, and with a curious
sunken look about his eyes. "Not a word, please. The scandal is
against some one else? I will not hear it, ma'am. Mrs Barclay, I will
not know. Life is too short to mix ourselves up with these miserable
scandals. I will not wait, Barclay. It is growing late. I shall
probably meet my daughter, and take her back. If I do not, and she
should come here, might I ask you to see her home?"
"Yes, Denville, yes; but, look here, we have something to tell you.
Wife, it is more a woman's work. You can do it more kindly than I."
"You'll pardon me," said Denville, looking from one to the other, and
smiling feebly. "Some fresh story about my daughter? Is it not so,
Mrs Barclay?"
"Yes, yes, Mr Denville," she whispered; "and you ought to know, though
I was going to leave my Jo-si-ah to tell you."
"Always good and kind to me and my family, dear Mrs Barclay," said
Denville, smiling, and bending over the plump hand he took, to kiss it,
with chivalrous respect. "But no--no more tales, my dear madam; the
chronicles of Saltinville are too full of scandals. No, no, my dear
Mrs Barclay; my unfortunate house can live it down."
He drew himself up, took a pinch of snuff with all the refined style and
air of the greatest buck of the time, and handed his box to Barclay, who
took it, mechanically helped himself noisily, and handed it back.
"The old man's half mad," he muttered, as he looked at him.
"But Mr Denville," cried Mrs Barclay pleadingly; "you ought to know--
you must know."
"Nonsense, madam, nonsense!" cried Denville, with his most artificial
manner reigning supreme, as he flicked away a tiny speck of dust from
his frill. "We can laugh at these things--we elderly people, and treat
them as they deserve."
"But, Mr Denville--"
"No, dear madam, no; I protest," he continued, almost playfully.
"Jo-si-ah, time's flying," cried Mrs Barclay, in a pathetic manner that
was absolutely comic. "What _am_ I to say to this man?"
"Tell him," said Barclay sternly.
"Ah!" ejaculated Mrs Barclay, with a long sigh, as if she shrank from
her task. "It must be done. Dear Mr Denville, I don't like telling
you, but Mrs Burnett--"
Denville reeled, and caught at Barclay's arm.
"Hold up, old fellow! Be a man," cried the money-lender, supporting
him.
The old man recovered himself, and stood up very erect, turning for a
moment resentfully on Barclay, as if angry that he should have dared to
touch him. Then, looking fiercely at Mrs Barclay:
"Hush, ma'am!" he cried. "Shame, shame! How can you--you who are so
true and tender-hearted--let yourself be the mouthpiece of this wretched
crew?"
"But indeed, Mr Denville--"
"Oh, hush, ma'am, hush! You, who know the people so well. Mrs
Burnett--my dear sweet child, May--the idol of my very life--to be made
the butt now at which these wretches shoot their venomous shafts.
Scandals, madam; scandals, Barclay. Coinages from the very pit. A
true, sweet lady, sir. Bright as a bird. Sweet as some opening flower.
And they dare to malign her with her bright, merry, innocent ways--that
sweet young girl wife. Oh, shame! Shame upon them! Shame!"
"Oh, Denville, Denville," said Barclay softly, as he laid his hand upon
the old man's shoulder.
"Ah!" he cried, "even you pity me for this. Dear Mrs Barclay, I ought
to be angry with you: but no, I will not. You mean so well. But it is
all I have--in a life so full of pain and suffering that I wonder how I
live--the love of my daughters--them to defend against the world.
Madam, you are mistaken. My daughter--an English lady--as pure as
heaven. But I thank you--I am not angry--you mean well. Always kind
and helpful to my dear child, Claire. Ha, ha, ha!"
It was a curious laugh, full of affectation; and he took snuff again
with all the old ceremony; but he did not close the box with a loud
snap, and as his hand fell to his side, the brown powder dropped in
patches and flakes here and there upon the carpet.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed again. "Calumnies, madam--I say it as I take
my leave--the calumnies of false fribbles and envious women. Busy again
with my dear children's names. But we must live it down. Elopement!
Pshaw! The coxcombs! The Jezebels! My child! Oh, I cannot mention
her sweet, spring-flower name in connection with such a horror. It is
atrocious."
"Denville," said Barclay, in answer to an appealing look from his wife.
"No, no! Not a word, sir, not a word," cried Denville, raising his
hand. "It is too absurd--too villainous. Madam, it is from your good
heart that this warning comes. I thank you, ma'am, you meant to put me
on my guard. Barclay, adieu, my good friend. You'll shake hands.
You'll take no notice of this slight emotion--this display of a father's
indignation on hearing such a charge. Mrs Barclay, if I have spoken
harshly, you'll forgive me. I don't blame you, dear madam. _Au
revoir_! No, no; don't ring, I beg. I pray you will not come down.
You'll banish all this--from your thoughts--"
He stopped short and reeled again, dropping snuff-box, hat, and cane as
he clasped his hands to his head, staring wildly before him. The feeble
affected babble ceased suddenly, and it was another voice that seemed to
come from his lips as he exclaimed loudly in hot anger:
"It is a lie! You--May! The girl I've loved so well--you! When my cup
of suffering is brimming over. A lie--a lie, I say. Ah!"
His manner changed again; and now it was soft and full of wild appeal,
as he cried:
"May--May! My darling! God help me, poor broken dotard that I am!
Shall I be in time?"
He made a dash for the door, but staggered, and would have fallen had
not Barclay caught him and helped him to a chair, where he sat gazing
before him as if at some scene passing before his eyes.
"Blood," he whispered at last, "to the head. Help me, Barclay, or I
shall be too late."
"No, stay here. I'll go and do all I can."
"No!" cried Denville fiercely. "I am her father, Barclay; we may save
her--if I go too."
He rose with nervous energy now, and gripping the money-lender's arm
they went together out into the dark street, where, indignantly refusing
further help, the old man strode off, leaving Barclay watching him.
"I don't hardly know what to do," he said musingly. "Ah! who are you?"
"His lordship's man, sir," said a livery servant. "Lord Carboro' says
could you make it convenient to come to him directly?"
"No, I'm busy. Well, yes, I will. Is he at home?"
"No, sir; at the reading-room."
"Go on, then," said Barclay. "Tell his lordship I'll be there
directly."
The man went off, and Barclay hurried indoors to speak with his wife,
and came out five minutes later to join the old nobleman at the
reading-room that answered the purpose of a club.
Volume Three, Chapter VI.