"A letter, Claire, so painful that I shrank from reading it to you, only
that I have no secrets from my promised wife."
"Does it give you pain?" said Claire, as she looked up in Richard
Linnell's face, where they sat in the half-light of evening, with the
sea spread before them--placid and serene as their life had been during
the past few weeks.
"Bitter pain," he said sadly, as he gazed at the saddened face, set off
by the simple black in which she was clothed.
"Then why not let me share it? Is pain so new a thing to me?"
"So old that I would spare you more; and yet you ought to know my family
cares, as I have known yours."
"May I read?" said Claire softly, as she laid her thin white hand upon
the letter.
He resigned it to her without a word; but as she opened the folds:
"Yes; read it," he said. "It concerns you as much as it does me, and
you shall be the judge as to whether the secret shall be kept."
Claire looked up at him wonderingly, and then read the letter aloud.
It was a passionate appeal, and at the same time a confession and a
farewell; and, as Claire read on, she grew the more confused and
wondering.
For the letter was addressed to Richard Linnell, asking his forgiveness
for the many ways in which the writer, in her tender love and earnest
desire for his happiness, had stood between him and Claire, ready to
spread reports against her fame, and contrive that Linnell should hear
them, since the writer had never thoroughly known Claire Denville's
heart, but had judged her from the standpoint of her sister. It had
been agony to the writer to see Linnell's devotion to a woman whom she
believed to be unworthy of his love; and as his father's life had been
wrecked by a woman's deceit, the writer had sworn to leave no stone
unturned to save the son.
At times the letter grew sadly incoherent, and the tears with which it
had been blotted showed its truthfulness, as the writer prayed Richard's
forgiveness for fighting against his love and giving him such cruel
pain.
"Colonel Mellersh will explain all to you," the letter went on, "for he
has known everything. It was he who saved me from further degradation,
and found the money to buy this business, where I thought to live out my
remaining span of life unknown, and only soothed by seeing you at
times--you whom I loved so dearly and so well."
Claire looked up from the letter wonderingly, but Linnell bade her read
on.
"Colonel Mellersh fought hard against my wishes at first, but he yielded
at last out of pity. I promised him that I would never make myself
known--never approach your father's home--and I have kept my word.
Mellersh has absolved me now that I am leaving here for ever, and I go
asking your forgiveness as your wretched mother, and begging you to ask
for that of Claire Denville, the sweet, true, faithful woman whom you
will soon, I hope, make your wife.
"Lastly, I pray and charge you not to break the simple, calm happiness
of your father's life by letting him know that his unhappy wife has for
years been living so near at hand."
"But, Richard," cried Claire, "I always thought that--that she was
dead."
"He told me so," replied Linnell sadly. "She was dead to him. There,
you have read all. It was right that you should know. Colonel Mellersh
has told me the rest."
Linnell crumpled up the letter, and then smoothed it out, and folded and
placed it in his breast.
"It is right," he said again, "that you should know the truth. Mellersh
is my father's oldest friend. They were youths together. When the
terrible shock came upon my father that he was alone, and that his wife
had fled with a man whom he had made his companion after Mellersh had
gone upon foreign service, his whole life was changed, and he became the
quiet, subdued recluse you see."
Linnell paused for a few minutes, and then went on:
"Mellersh had idolised my mother when she was a bright fashion-loving
girl; but he accepted his fate when she gave the preference to my
father. When he came home from India and found what had happened, and
that this wretch had cast her off, he shot the betrayer of my father's
name, and then sought out and rescued my mother, placing her as you have
read, at her desire, here."
"But, Richard dear, I am so dull and foolish--I can only think of one
person that this could possibly have been; and it could not be--"
"Miss Clode? Yes, that was the name she took. My mother, Claire. What
do you say to me now?"
Claire rose from her seat gently, and laid her hand upon her arm.
"We must keep her secret, Richard," she said; "but let us go to her
together now."
"Then you forgive her the injury she did you?"
"It was out of love for you; and she did not know me then. Let us go."
"Impossible," he said, taking her in his arms. "She has left here for
ever. Some day we may see her, but the proposal is to come from her."
They did not hear the door open as they stood clasped in each other's
arms, nor hear it softly closed, nor the whispers on the landing, as one
of the visitors half sobbed:
"Ain't it lovely, Jo-si-ah? Did you see 'em? If it wasn't rude and
wrong, I could stand and watch 'em for hours. It do put one in mind of
the days when--"
"Hold your tongue, you stupid old woman," was the gruff reply. "It's
quite disgusting. A woman at your time of life wanting to watch a pair
of young people there, and no candles lit."
"Hush! Don't talk so loud, or they'll hear us; and now, Jo-si-ah, as
it's in my mind, I may as well say it to you at once."
"Now, look here," said Barclay in a low voice, in obedience to his
wife's request, but speaking quickly, "I've been bitten pretty heavily
by the fellows in the regiment that has just gone, so if it's any new
plan of yours that means money, you may stop it, for not a shilling do
you get from me. There!"
"And at your time of life, too! To tell such fibs, Jo-si-ah! Just as
if I didn't know that you've made a profit of Sir Harry Payne alone,
enough to cover all your losses. Now, look here: I don't like little
Mrs Burnett, or Gravani, or whatever her name is, but seeing how she's
left alone in the world, and nobody's wife after all, and poor Mr
Denville is poor Mr Denville, and it's a tax upon him, and you're out
so much, I've been thinking, I say--"
"Wouldn't do, old lady. She's not the woman who would make our home
comfortable; and besides--"
"But she's so different, Jo-si-ah, since she has been getting nearly
well."
"Glad of it, old lady. Hope she'll keep so. But you forget that Claire
will soon be leaving home, and--"
"What a stupid old woman I am, Jo-si-ah! Why, of course! Her place is
there along with her father; and it's wonderful how he pets that little
child. There now, I'm sure they've had long enough. Let's go in and
tell them the news."
This time Mrs Barclay tapped at the door softly, before opening it half
an inch and saying:
"May we come in?"
Her answer was the door flung wide, and Claire's arms round her neck.
"We've come to tell you that we've just seen Lord Carboro', my dear, and
he told us that he'd heard about your brother from the Colonel of his
new regiment, out in Gibraltar, and that he's getting on as well as can
be."
Volume Three, Chapter XXIX.