Denville grew composed at once, and taking Claire's hand, stood up
facing his visitors with a slight trace of the old manner returning, as
he bowed and pointed to the stool and bed.
"Poor accommodation for visitors, gentlemen," he said; "but it is the
best I have to offer. Mr Barclay, Mr Linnell, will you be seated?"
"Couldn't get to you before, Denville," said the money-lender, shaking
hands warmly. "Terrible business this. Miss Claire, my dear, the wife
has gone to your house again. Taken some things with her; said she
should stay."
"Mr Denville, I am truly grieved," said Linnell, offering his hand,
after giving Claire a grave, sad look. "Mr Barclay and I have come to
see of what service we can be to you."
"Yes, yes, of course, Denville," cried Barclay briskly. "Bad business,
this, but--eh, Mr Linnell?"
"Miss Denville," said the latter, turning to Claire, "as we are about to
discuss business matters about counsel and your father's defence, would
you like to leave us?"
"No," said Denville quickly, as he drew Claire's hand through his arm,
and shook his head. "You will pardon me, gentlemen, but in the little
space of time I am allowed to see visitors, I should like to keep my
child by my side. Gentlemen--Mr Barclay--Mr Linnell--half an hour ago
I said that I had no friends. I was wrong--I thank you for coming. God
bless you!"
"Why, of course you had friends, Denville," cried Barclay. "You don't
suppose because a man's hard and fast over money matters, that he has no
bowels of compassion, do you? But now, business. About counsel for
your defence?"
"I had already discussed the matter with my daughter, gentlemen.
Counsel! It is useless. I need none."
"Need none, Mr Denville?" cried Linnell quickly. "Pray think of what
you are saying. You must have legal help."
Claire darted a grateful look at Linnell, and then drew back with pain
depicted in her countenance, mingled with pride and mortification as she
saw the coldness in his manner towards her.
"I must repeat what I said, Mr Linnell," said Denville in a low, pained
voice. "I want no counsel. I will have none, but I thank you all the
same, Mr Barclay. Claire, my child, you will pardon me. I must speak
with Mr Barclay."
Claire shrank into one corner of the cell, her brow drawn with the pain
inflicted upon her as her father kept reverting to his old displays of
deportment and mincing ways--ways that had become so habitual that even
now, incongruous as they were, he could not quite throw them off.
"You need not go, Mr Linnell," he continued, "that is if you will bear
with the pain of listening to a dying man's request. We have never been
friends, sir, but I am your debtor now for your kindly act. My dear
Barclay, the little drama of my poor life is nearly over; the curtain is
about to fall. You have known me long--my little ambitious hopes and
disappointments. I cannot say to my child there is a home for her with
her sister; will you help her when--you know what I would say?"
"Denville, old fellow, I don't know what to say to this," said Barclay
quickly. "It's a mystery to me. Damn it, sir, I can't believe you
killed that old woman even now. I want to get you counsel who will
clear you, sir, and throw the deed on to whoever did it--some one
unknown."
"Hush!--hush! Pray hush!" cried Denville, shuddering. "We are wasting
time. Barclay--my daughter."
"My dear old fellow," said the money-lender quickly, "I told you that my
wife had gone on to your place to see Miss Claire there. Don't you be
afraid for her. She has a friend in Mrs B who will never fail her.
Friend? She will prove a mother. Don't you trouble about Miss Claire.
There's only one obstacle to her having a happy home, and that's me,
and--"
He stopped short, for his voice had turned husky, and gripping
Denville's hand very tightly, he held it for a few minutes.
"God bless her sweet face!" he whispered; "we never believed one of the
miserable scandals about her, Denville. But now about yourself."
Denville turned away his face, took a couple of steps to the side, and
stood with his back to them for a few minutes. Then, turning, with his
face wearing a curious look of calm, he laid his hand upon Barclay's
arm.
"You have taken away the bitterness of death, Barclay," he said in a low
voice. "Heaven help me for the weakest of men. I never knew who were
my friends."
"Then you will let us get counsel for you?"
"No, no! I forbid it," said Denville sternly. "Good-bye, Mr Linnell.
I thank you. Barclay, God bless you!"
His voice trembled as he pressed the money-lender's hand, for the gaoler
had opened the door, and was waiting to usher them out.
"Claire, my child," he whispered, taking her in his arms, "you will come
again. Good-bye now. Good-bye."
She clung to him wildly for a few moments, and then, with a look of
desolation in her eyes, slowly followed the gaoler and the other
visitors along the echoing stone passages to the gate, where Linnell
laid his hand upon her arm.
Before he could speak there was a rustle of a silk dress, a hurried
panting as some one brushed by him, and a voluble voice exclaimed:
"They wouldn't let me in, my dear, and I've been waiting for you to
come. There, there, there, you and May are coming home along with me,
and--"
Her voice died away as Linnell stood there, feeling desolate and cold.
There was an intense bitterness in his heart, as he told himself that
his love for Claire was of a very poor type, that he had been ready to
believe ill of her, and let that love become chilled. What had he done
now that she was plunged into the very depths of despair? Almost held
aloof when he would have given all he had--life itself--to save her from
her pain.
"I am mad, jealous, weak, and contemptible," he cried to himself at
last. "I will go to her and tell her I love her more than ever. It is
not too late."
He had taken a step to follow, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and
Barclay said huskily:
"There's a woman for you, Mr Linnell, sir. I often think she ought to
have had a better husband. There, the best thing is to let them alone
together. You wouldn't think it, Mr Linnell, with me, such a hard nut
as I am, but this business has quit upset me. Good-day, sir, good-day."
"Good-day, Mr Barclay," said Linnell dreamily; and they were parting,
when Barclay said in a low quick whisper:
"You may think of some way of helping the old fellow, Mr Linnell. If
you do there's any amount of money ready for the lawyers, if you give me
a hint. For he's an innocent man, sir. Kill that old woman? Pho!
Pooh! Stuff! He couldn't kill a cat!"
Volume Three, Chapter XIV.