Claire Denville sat back in her chair utterly exhausted, and feeling as
if her brain was giving way. The news from the prison was as hopeless
as ever. Fred lay lingering at the barrack infirmary; and though May
was better she was querulous, and in that terribly weak state when life
seems to be a burden and thought a weariness and care.
She was asleep now, and Claire had just risen softly so as not to awaken
her, and make her resume her complaints and questions as to how soon her
father would come back and forgive her, and when her husband would
return and take her home, for she was weary of lying there.
Unreasoning in her weakness, she had that afternoon been bitterly
reproaching Claire for not fetching her child, that she might nurse and
play with it--at a time when she could hardly hold up her arm--and when
she had been firmly but kindly refused she had burst into a torrent of
feeble, querulous reproaches, which had been maddening to Claire in her
excited, overstrained state.
The door opened, and Mrs Barclay's beaming countenance appeared, and
she stood there beckoning with her fat finger.
"Let's stand outside and talk," she whispered. "That's right: close the
door. Now then, my dear, I'll go in and sit with your sister there, for
you're getting overdone; and I tell you what, it's a fine soft evening,
you put on your bonnet and shawl and go and have a walk. I don't like
your going alone, but just take one sharp walk as far as the pier and
back, two or three times. It'll do you good."
"Have you any news, Mrs Barclay?" said Claire, ignoring the wish
expressed.
"Not yet, my dear, but everybody's working for you. Now, do go."
Claire hesitated, and then in obedience to the reiterated wish she
mechanically did as she was bid, and went out into the cool soft night,
the beating of the waves sounding loudly on the shore, while as they
broke a glow as of fire ran along their crests, flashing and sparkling
with soft radiance along the shore.
But Claire saw nothing, heard nothing--neither the figure that came
quickly after her as she left the house, nor the sound of steps.
For all was one weary confused trouble in her brain, and everything
seemed forced and unnatural, as if it were the mingling of some dream.
Mrs Barclay had bidden her walk as far as the pier, and in all
obedience she had done as she was told, reaching the pier entrance; and
then, attracted she knew not how or why by the darkness and silence, she
turned on to the wooden edifice, and began to walk swiftly along the
planked floor.
It was very dark that night, only at the end there was a single light
that shone brightly, and in her confused state this seemed to be the
star of hope leading her on.
She had not had the slightest intention of going there, but in a rapt
dreamy way she walked on and on, the vacant place seeming strange. The
last time she had stood on the pier it had been thronged with
well-dressed promenaders, but that was months--it seemed years--ago,
while endless horrors had taken place since then.
How calm--and still it all was where she walked, while below among the
piles the sea softly ebbed and flowed and throbbed, seeming full of
whisperings and voices that were hushed lest she should hear the words
they said.
She walked on and still on, and it occurred to her once that it was
along here that beautiful Cora Dean's ponies had dashed, taking her over
the end into the sea, from which Richard Linnell, so brave and honest,
had saved her. She had often heard how the crowd cheered him--Richard
Linnell. Cora loved him and was jealous of her, and yet she had no
cause to be, for the events of the terrible night--the night of the
ghastly serenade--killed that for ever.
Why did she think of all this now? She could not tell. It came. She
felt that she was not answerable for her thoughts--hardly for herself,
as she turned and looked back at the faint lights twinkling upon the
Parade. It seemed as if she were saying good-bye to the town, where, in
spite of the early struggles with poverty, there had been so much
happiness, as in her young love dream she had felt that Richard Linnell
cared for her.
Yes; it was like saying good-bye to it with all its weary troubles and
bitter cares.
She walked on and on, right to the end, but the light did not shed its
beams upon her now. It was no longer a star of hope. It sent its light
far out to sea, but she was below it in the shade, and hope was
forgotten as she leaned over the rail at the end, listening to the
mysterious whisperings of the water in amongst the piles, and looking
down into the transparent darkness all lit up with tiny lambent points
which were ever going and coming. Now and then there would be a pale
bluish-golden flash of light, and then quite a ribbon of dots and
flashes, as some fish sped through the sea, but it only died out,
leaving the soft transparency lit up with the faint dots and specks that
were ever moving.
To her right, though, there was a cable, curving down into the sea, and
rising far out, after nearly touching the sands, to ascend to the deck
of a large smack aground on the bank. That rope was one mass of lambent
light, a huge chain of pallid gold that glowed all round; and as Claire
Denville gazed there was a rift in the clouds overhead, and from far
above the rays from a cluster of stars were reflected like a patch of
diamonds in the sea, and she turned shudderingly away to gaze down once
more at the transparent darkness, where the moving specks seemed to have
a peculiar fascination.
How the softly flowing and ebbing waves whispered below there amid the
piles and down under the platform where her brother used to fish! How
soothing and restful it all was to her aching head! The troubles that
had been maddening her seemed to float away, and everything was calm and
cool. As she stood thinking there a dreamy sensation came over her,
such as comes to those who have awakened after the crisis of a fever.
Hers had been a fever of the brain, a mental fever; and now all seemed
so calm and still that she heaved a sigh, half sob, and the troubles
died away in the past.
The transparent water into which she gazed, with its flashes of luminous
splendour, seemed to grow more and more mysterious and strange. It was
so like oblivion that it began to tempt her to trust herself to it and
rest: for she was so weary! Trouble after trouble--the long series of
cares--had been so terrible a strain that she felt that she could bear
no more, and that the sea offered her forgetfulness and rest.
She did not know why she came there: it was not against her will--it was
not with her will. Her mind seemed to be stunned, and it was as if her
wearied body had drawn her there.
She leaned over the rail, with the cool, soft, refreshing air bathing
her burning forehead, and watched one brilliant point of light--soft and
lambent--that was near the surface, and then moved slowly down lower and
lower into the dark depths that seemed beyond fathoming; and, as she
watched it, the fancy came upon her that these points of light might be
lives like hers, wearied out and now resting and gliding here and there
in the soft transparent darkness at her feet.
Father--brother--sister--Richard Linnell--her past cares--all appeared
distant and strange, and she had no more control over herself than has
one in a dream. There was that weariness of spirit--of a spirit that
had been whipped and spurred until jaded beyond endurance--that
weariness that asked for rest--rest at whatever cost; and whispered that
rest could only come in the great sleep--the last.
It did not seem like death, to step from the end of the pier into the
dark water. There was nothing horrible therein. On the contrary, it
wooed and beckoned her to its breast, offering utter oblivion when, in
her more lucid moments, she felt she must go mad.
As if guided by instinct more than her own will, she turned at last from
the rail and took a few steps in the darkness towards the side where the
damp salt-soaked flight of steps led to the platform below--the rough
landing-stage beneath where she had been standing.
Here, as she stood close to the edge with the black piles looming up
around, she fancied they were the whisperers as the water heaved and
plashed, and rippled and fell. There was no rail here between her and
the rest that seemed to ask her to sink down into its arms, now that she
was so weary, and unconsciously she was standing where her brother had
stood and listened many months ago at the footsteps overhead, as he
enjoyed his stolen pleasure in the middle of the night.
But there was no heavy step now--no voice to break the curious spell
that was upon her, drawing her away from life, and bidding her sleep.
She was not afraid; she was not excited. Everything seemed to her dull
and dreamy and restful, as she stood on the very verge of the open
platform, with the water now only a few inches from her feet, leaning
more and more over, till the slightest further movement would have
overbalanced her, and she would have fallen in, to sink without a cry.
She hardly started as a firm hand gripped her arm, and she was drawn
sharply back, to be held tightly by him who had followed her below,
watching her every action and standing close behind her in the darkness
with outstretched hands.
"Miss Denville--Claire--for heaven's sake, what does this mean?"
She did not struggle, but turned round slowly, and looked in the dimly
seen face.
"Richard Linnell!" she said, as if wondering at his presence.
"Yes, Richard Linnell," he cried, panting with emotion. "Claire, my
love, has it come to this?"
She did not shrink from him as he drew her closely to his side, and his
arm clasped her waist, but gazed up at him in the same half-wondering
way.
"Why are you here?" he said hoarsely. "Surely you were not thinking--
oh, it is impossible."
Still she did not answer, but in a slow, dull way extricated herself
from his grasp, and pressed her hands over her face, covering her eyes
for a few moments till she felt his touch as he laid his hand upon her
arm.
"Claire," he whispered, "you do not speak to me. Why do you not say
something to drive away these horrible thoughts. You here--at this
hour--alone? Is it my fate to be always misunderstanding you?"
She shuddered slightly, as if his words were reviving memories of other
meetings, and now she spoke.
"I don't know why I am here," she said in a dazed, helpless way. "I
have had so much trouble. I was tired!"
"Trouble!" he whispered. "Claire dearest, if you only knew how I loved
you. Let me share the trouble--help you through everything."
"Hush! Don't speak to me like that, Richard Linnell," she said slowly,
as if she had to think deeply before she uttered a word. "I cannot talk
to you now. My head!"
She paused and gazed at him helplessly, laying her hand upon her brow.
"You ought not to have been alone," he said, earnestly. "But tell me--
you were not thinking of that--"
He pointed with a shudder to the sea that whispered and hissed below
where they stood.
"I don't know," she sighed, still in the same dazed way. "I came, and
it seemed to draw me towards it. I am so weary--so tired out."
He caught her in his arms, and held her head down upon his shoulder, as
he whispered in a voice deep with emotion:
"Weary, my poor girl, weary indeed. Now rest there, and, heaven helping
me, half your trouble shall pass away. For I love you, Claire, love you
with all my heart, and I too have suffered more than I can tell."
She made no resistance to his embrace, but sighed deeply, as if he was
giving her the support she needed in her time of weakness; but his heart
sank within him as he felt how helpless and dazed she was. She yielded
to him, but it was not the yielding of one who loved, neither was there
a suggestion of caress in her words. He knew that she was half
distraught with the suffering that had fallen to her lot; and holding
her more tightly for a moment, he pressed his lips once reverently on
her forehead, and then drew her arm through his.
"I will take you back," he said.
She looked up at him, and a pang shot through his breast as he realised
how weak she had become.
"Yes," she said at last, "you will take me back."
"And, Claire, are the clouds between us to pass away for ever now?" he
whispered, as he held her hand.
"Clouds?" she said, as she seemed to comprehend him now. "No: they can
never pass away. Mr Linnell, I am ill. I hardly know what I say."
"Then trust me," he said. "I will take you back."
"Yes--if you will," she said vacantly. "I have been so ill. I hardly
know--why I am here."
"But you understand me, Claire?" he said softly.
"Yes: I think I understand you."
"Then remember this," he said. "You have shrunk from me, and there has
been a terrible estrangement through all your troubles; but, mark this,
Claire Denville, I love you. Let me say those simple words again, and
let their simplicity and truth bear them home to your heart. I love
you, as I always have loved and always shall. You will turn to me,
dearest, now."
"It is impossible," she said gravely, and she seemed moment by moment to
be growing clearer.
"But I love you," he pleaded.
"And they ask for my love and help," she said, with a sudden flash back
into the full power of her intellect. "My poor suffering father--my
sister--my wounded brother. Can you not see that there is a social gulf
between us too?"
"No," he said, drawing her to him, and once more kissing her brow. "I
only see the sweet, true woman who has been a martyr--I only see my
love."
She did not speak for a few moments: and then the vacant manner returned
somewhat, as she said to him, laying her hand upon his arm:
"I seemed drawn here. I could not help it. That would be too horrible.
Take me back."
He drew her arm once more through his, and led her up the steps and back
to the Barclays' house, where he paused upon the steps.
"Always yours, Claire. I am going to work again in your service. I am
yours, and yours alone."
She shook her head sadly as the door was opened by Mrs Barclay, who
shrank back with a smile to let both enter; but Claire glided in, and
Richard Linnell remained.
"I am glad," whispered Mrs Barclay. "Why don't you come in?"
"Hush!" he whispered. "Poor girl! she is half mad with her misery.
Mrs Barclay, you must not let her go out of your sight. Good-night.
Good-night."
He walked rapidly away, and Mrs Barclay followed Claire into the
dining-room, where the poor girl was kneeling by a chair and weeping
bitterly for the lost love that she felt could never be hers; but as she
wept the tears seemed to give rest and lightness to her over-taxed
brain, and at last she sank fast asleep like a weary child, her head
upon her old friend's lap, and her breathing coming more regularly and
deep than at any time since the night of the murder.
Volume Three, Chapter XXIII.