The Master of the Ceremonies

“Ah!” he sighed as he clung to her; “and I always acted so unfairly to you, my child. But tell me – May?”

“She does not know,” said Claire earnestly. “In her weak state it might kill her.”

“Perhaps better it did,” said Denville solemnly. “Poor, weak, erring girl!”

“Hush! Don’t!” cried Claire. “Father, there is hope – there is forgiveness for us all if we show that we are indeed repentant. May is not like others. Always weak and wilful and easily turned aside from what was right. No: we must not despond. I must take you both far, far away, dear. I have come for that now. You must advise with me and help me,” she said quickly. “Tell me what I am to do – what I am to set about. Come, father, quick!”

“What you are to do?” he said sadly. “Trust in heaven, my child: we cannot shape our own paths in life, and when we do try the end is wreck.”

“Father,” she cried impetuously, “do you think I was speaking of myself? I want you to tell me whom to ask for help.”

“Help, my child?”

“Yes: for money. May I ask the Barclays? They have always been so kind. Surely they will help us now.”

“Help us – money?” he said vacantly.

“Yes, for your defence. We must have counsel, father. You shall be saved – saved that we may go far from here. Father, I cannot bear it. You must be saved.”

He was startled by the wildness of her manner and the fierce energy she threw into her words.

“You do not speak,” she cried imperiously, and she laid her hands upon his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. “You must not, you shall not give up and let yourself drift to destruction. Why do you not tell me? I am only a woman. Father, what shall I do?”

“What shall you do?” he said mournfully.

“Yes, yes. Forgive me for what I say – I, your child, who love you most dearly now that you are in this terrible trouble. Father, we must go away together to some distant place where, in a life of contrition and prayer, we may appeal daily for the forgiveness that is given to those who seek.”

He gazed in her eyes with his lip quivering, and a terrible look of despair in his face.

“Forgiveness for those who seek?”

“Yes, from a merciful God. Oh, father, if I wring your heart in what I say it is because I love you as your child.”

“Ah!”

A piteous sigh escaped his lips, and his head sank down upon his breast.

“You are silent,” she cried reproachfully, “silent, when the time is so short. I shall be dragged from your side directly, and you have not advised me what to do. I must have money. I must get counsel for you and advice.”

He drew a long breath and raised his head, his lips parting but uttering no sound.

“Yes!” she cried, “yes! Speak, father. Shall I go to Mr Barclay?”

“No.”

“Then tell me what I shall do, dear. Pray rouse yourself from this despair. Speak – tell me. What shall I do first?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Oh, father!”

“They say I committed this murder – that I crushed out the life of that miserable old woman. So be it.”

“Father!”

“I say – so be it,” he repeated firmly. “The law says one life must answer for another. Well – I am ready.”

Claire wrung her hands, as he rose from where he had knelt, and gazed at him in pitying wonder and awe.

“God is merciful,” said the old man mournfully. “He readeth all our hearts. Claire, my child, I am not afraid to die. I am sick for the rest that is to come.”

“But, father!” wailed Claire.

“My child, I know. I have thought of all. I have seen everything in the silence and darkness of this cell; but it is only a passing away from this weary life to one that is full of rest and peace. There is no injustice there.”

“Father, you madden me,” whispered Claire hoarsely. “You must not give up like this. Tell me what to do.”

“Think me innocent, my child,” he said softly – “innocent of that crime. And now let us talk of yourself and your brother Morton.”

She noticed that he did not mention May’s name.

“It is very bitter,” he said. “I had hoped to provide for my child, but I was not able. But there, you are stronger of mind than I, and you will be protected. That woman, Mrs Barclay, loves you, my child. But Morton, he is a mere boy, and weak – weak and vain, like his father, my child – as I have been. Watch over him, Claire. Advise him when he is falling away.”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, father; but you – ”

“I shall be at rest, my child,” he said sadly. “Do not think of me. Then there is – ”

He paused for a few moments with his lips quivering till he saw her inquiring eyes, and with a heavy sigh he went on.

” – There is May.”

He paused again, to go on almost lightly, but she read the agony in his eyes, and clung to his arm and held it to her breast.

“This is like my will,” he said, “the only one I shall make. There is May. I have not been fair, my dear. I have given her all my love – to your neglect. I have made her my idol, and – and – like her brother Morton, she is very weak. Such a pretty child, beautiful as an angel. Claire dearest, I loved her so well, and it has been my punishment for my injustice to you.”

“Dearest father!”

“Yes, I was unjust to you, but that is past. I pray your forgiveness, my child, as I say to you, I leave you the legacy of that boy and girl – that child-wife. Claire, you must forgive her, as I pray Him to forgive me. Ignore the past, Claire, my child, and in every way you can be ready to step between her and the evil that she goes too near. You will do this?”

“Oh, father, yes. But you? What shall I do now?”

“Claire, only a few short weeks, and I shall be in my grave. Don’t start, my child. To you, in your sweet spring of life, it is the black pit of horror. To me, in the bitter winter of my life, there is no horror there: it is but the calm, silent resting-place where tired nature sleeps and life’s troubles end. There, there, my little one, to whose sweet virtues and truth I have been blind, I am almost content with my fate for the reason that you have awakened me from a trance into which I had fallen. Claire, my child, can you forgive this weak, vain, old man?”

She leaned forward and kissed his white forehead, and, as he drew her closer to him, she nestled in his breast, and clung to him, sobbing convulsively.

“Hah!” he sighed, “I did not know I could be so happy again. Think of me as an innocent – an injured man, my child, as of one whose lips are sealed. Pray for me as I shall pray for you.”

“But, father, I may see Mr Barclay?”

He was silent for a few minutes.

“Yes,” he said at last.

Claire uttered a sigh of relief.

“You shall ask him to come here. I will appeal to him to watch over you. He is rough, Claire, and his wife is vulgar – coarse; but, God help me! I wish I had had such a true and sterling heart. There, hush! I have made my will,” he said, smiling. “It is done; I have but to seal it with my death, and I see its approach without a shade of fear.”

“But, father! my dearest father!”

“My own,” he said tenderly, as he kissed her and smiled down upon her. “Ah! you do not shrink from me now. Sweet, true woman. Oh, that I could have been so blind! You were going to ask me something.”

“Yes, dearest,” she whispered; “I want you to forgive – ”

“May? Yes: she is forgiven. I forgive her, poor, weak child. Tell her that I had but tender words for her even now. I would send her messages, but of what avail would they be, even as the words of a dying man? No; she has not the stability. It is more her failing than her sin. You were asking me to forgive her.”

“I knew you forgave her, dearest, but I want you to forgive poor Fred.”

He started from her as if he had been stung.

“I saw him last night, and he begs and prays of you to forgive him and let him come. Father, he loves you in spite of all this estrangement.”

“Silence!” cried the old man furiously. “Have I not said that I would not hear his name?”

“Father dearest, what have I done?” cried Claire, as she gazed in terror at the convulsed features, at the claw-like hands, extended, clutching, and opening and shutting as the old man gasped for air.

“Father! Oh, help!”

A terrible purple colour suffused his face; his knotted veins started upon his temples, and it seemed as if he were about to fall in a fit; but the paroxysm began to pass away. He caught at Claire’s hand, and held by it while with his other he signed to her to be silent, for just then the clanking of bolts and locks was heard, and the door was thrown open to admit Richard Linnell and Mr Barclay.

Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen.

Under Barclay’s Shell

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 Fourteen.

Fred Denville Forward

“What do you say, my dear – another of those mad fits of excitement as soon as my name’s mentioned? Oh, it’s too bad. I don’t think I’ve ever been rake enough to deserve it. Well, whether or no, I must go and see him. I can’t stop away. I’m his eldest son, and a man’s a man even if he is a common soldier, and has disgraced himself in the eyes of society.”

“Fred dear, I’m broken-hearted,” sobbed Claire, as she nestled close to her brother, and hid her face in his breast, neither seeing nor hearing Mr and Mrs Barclay open the door and cross the room, the latter making a sign to the dragoon not to take any notice of them, and as soon as she was alone with her husband, saying indignantly:

“The scandalous old hags, making out that the poor dear was carrying on with a common soldier. Lor’! Jo-si-ah, what a little wickedness there would seem to be in the world if everything was properly explained.”

“Well, I don’t know so much about that,” replied Barclay. “Perhaps we should find out some of the very innocent ones were not so good as they seemed.”

“I shall go on at once and see the old man,” said Fred Denville, kissing his sister tenderly. “I can’t stop away. The old fellow will be calmer perhaps to-day; and, Claire, my girl, I’m going to try and get my discharge, and start a new life. It’s a strange thing if I can’t keep a home for you and take care of you. I can’t stand this soldiering any longer. Servant to that blackguard, Rockley! Has he spoken to you lately?”

“No, Fred,” said Claire wearily. “No.”

“I can’t stand it, girl. It’s a shame to talk of my beggarly troubles now, but it’s precious hard to be meeting one’s own brother – one’s superior officer – and him not to know me. Has Morton been to see father?”

“N-no, dear; not yet.”

“Curse him!”

“Fred! – dear Fred!”

“Well, no, I won’t curse him. It’s the boy’s training, not his nature. He ought not to cut the poor old man, though, in his disgrace. Claire, damn it all; I don’t believe father killed that old thing.”

He looked at his sister with a quick intelligent gaze, full of conviction; but as he met her full in the eyes, and saw the change that came over her countenance, the conviction seemed blunted, and he shuddered.

“She believes it!” he muttered. Then aloud: “Why, Claire!”

“Hush – don’t – don’t speak to me – don’t say anything,” she panted. “Fred, shall I be dragged before the judge and be forced to answer questions – horrible questions?”

He was silent.

“You believe I shall. You think I shall,” she panted. “Oh, Fred, Fred, I would sooner die.”

He drew a long breath, and looked at her in a horrified way, while she seemed to be growing wild with dread.

“I could not bear it,” she cried, “to go up before those people and condemn my own father. It would be too horrible. It would be against nature. I could not, I would not speak.”

“Hush, little sister,” said Fred tenderly. “You are growing wild. Perhaps you will not have to go. Perhaps they will find out the right man before the time – hush! – hush!”

Claire had uttered a piteous cry full of despair, as she buried her face in her hands.

“I cannot bear it – I cannot bear it,” she cried. “There, go – go and see him,” she said quickly. “You must go. It would be too cruel to stay away from him now he is so low in spirit. Be gentle with him, Fred, if he says hard things to you; and pray – pray don’t resent them. You will bear everything for my sake – say that you will.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Trouble and misery have made him irritable, and so that he hardly knows what he says at times.”

“Poor old fellow!” said the dragoon sadly. “Ah, Claire, my little girl, it did not want this trouble in our unhappy home.”

He kissed her very tenderly, and then, as if moved by some sudden impulse, he took her in his arms again and held her to his breast, whilst she clung to him as if he were her only hope, and so they remained in silence for a time.

At last he loosed himself from her embrace, and stood over her as she crouched down upon the sofa.

“I’m going there now, Claire,” he said, “but before I go, have you anything to say to me about that night of the murder? Is there anything I ought to know, so as to be able to talk to the old man about his defence? Will he tell me all he knows about the affair – why, Claire, child, what is the matter – are you going wild?”

He caught her two hands, and held her, startled by the change which had come over her, as she shrank from him in horror, with eyes dilated, face drawn and lips apart.

“There, my little girl,” he said, with rough tenderness, “I ought to have known better than to talk to you about it. Perhaps all will come right yet after all.”

Claire seemed to be so prostrated that it was some time before he attempted to leave her, and then it was upon her urging, for she seemed at last to rouse herself to action, and with feverish haste bade him go.

“It is your duty, Fred,” she said agitatedly, “but – but don’t question him – don’t say a word to him. Only go to him as the son to the father in terrible distress. Let him speak to you if he will.”

“But his defence, girl, his defence. Something must be done, and I am without a guinea in the world.”

“Mr Barclay – Mr Linnell are arranging that without his knowledge,” said Claire. “I had forgotten to tell you, Fred: my head seems confused and strange.”

“No wonder, little one,” he said. “Ah, I like that Barclay. One never knows who are our friends until trouble comes – and young Linnell. It isn’t a time to talk about such things now, Clairy; but young Linnell’s a good fellow, and he thinks a great deal of you.”

Claire joined her hands as if begging him to be silent, and he once more kissed her, and after begging Mrs Barclay to watch over her, hurried away.

Volume Three – Chapter Fifteen.

Father and Son

James Bell, dragoon, otherwise Fred Denville, the disgraced prodigal of the Master of the Ceremonies’ home, had a couple of shillings in his pocket as he strode towards the prison; and as he was on his way, low-spirited and despondent at the troubles of his house, a great thirst came upon him, and he felt that he could never go through the scene he had to encounter without a stimulant in some form.

Then he thought of what a curse drink was to him, and how he could not take one glass without wanting another, and many others, and with this thought he manfully passed the first public-house.

But, as he passed, the door was swung open, and the hot, spiritous odour of strong drinks floated out and half maddened him.

“Just one glass would tighten me up,” he muttered, “and I could go through with it better.”

He thought of his last interview with his father, their struggle, and how he had nearly struck him, and he shrank from what was to come.

“I can’t help it,” he said. “I must have a drop. It will steady a fellow’s nerves. Good God! how horrible to go and see that old man charged with murder.”

He had thought a great deal about it before, but now the whole affair struck him as if in a new light, and the examinations, the trial, and the following of that trial came upon him with a terrible force that frightened him. It had never seemed so horrible before, and he burst out in a cold perspiration as in imagination he saw the white bared head of the old man, with wild eyes and ghastly face – saw him in the grey of some chilly morning, pinioned and with the white-robed priest by his side, walking towards —

It was too horrible! A curious feeling of blind terror made him shiver and hurry on, as something seemed to whisper in his ear, “He did murder that wretched old woman, and he must suffer for his crime.”

“Curse me, I must have some brandy, or I shall never be able to face him,” he gasped, as he strode on, no longer the stern, upright, well-built cavalry soldier, but a bent, trembling man, at whom more than one passer-by looked askance. He even reeled, and albeit perfectly sober, he evoked comments upon “these drunken soldiers” in the streets.

“It is too horrible,” he said again. “I never saw it like this before;” and, hurrying on with unsteady step, he was making straight for a public-house he knew, when, on turning a corner, he suddenly encountered Major Rockley.

The meeting was so sudden that he had passed him before he remembered his duty to salute his superior; but the encounter brought with it a flood of recollections of the night of Mrs Pontardent’s party, and the remembrance of his helplessness, and of the pangs he had suffered as he awoke to the fact, as he believed, that the sister he almost worshipped was in the power of a relentless scoundrel. This cleared the mental fumes that were obscuring his intellect, and, drawing himself up, he strode on straight past the public-house door and on to the prison gates.

“It’s time I acted like a man,” he said to himself, “and not like a cowardly brute.”

He was provided with a pass, and, in ignorance of the fact that Rockley had turned and was watching him, following him, and standing at a distance till he saw him enter the gates, he rang, presented his paper, and was ushered along the blank stone passages of the prison till he reached the cell door.