George Manville Fenn (continued 8)

“Like her sister’s were lost,” said Mrs Barclay. “I wonder what became of them, Jo-si-ah.”

She opened the case, examined the jewels, and then opened a cabinet and an iron safe within, where she deposited the valuables, afterwards making an entry in a book kept for the purpose, and another in the big ledger.

“That’s done,” she said with a sigh of content. “Why, Jo-si-ah, what a rich man you are getting.”

“Stuff! Don’t talk nonsense.”

“I say, dear,” she said, “I wonder how it is that Claire Denville hasn’t been here for so long. It seems strange. Here’s somebody else.”

The visitors proved to be Sir Harry Payne with Sir Matthew Bray, Mrs Barclay hurrying out to leave them with her husband.

“Well, gentlemen?” said Barclay drily.

“No, Barclay, it isn’t well,” cried Sir Harry, “nor will it be till I’ve got a couple of hundred pounds out of you.”

“And I one hundred,” said Sir Matthew pompously.

“My turn first,” said Sir Harry, laughing. “Now, Barclay, two hundred, and no nonsense.”

Barclay shook his head, but his money was safe with Sir Harry, for he already held certain deeds that would cover principal and his large interest.

“Now, Matt,” said Sir Harry, “your turn.”

He thrust a sheaf of notes into his pocket laughingly, and Sir Matthew rolled up.

“Now, Mr Barclay,” he said, taking his friend’s seat, while that gentleman began inspecting china and bronzes, “I want only a hundred.”

“Which you can’t have, Sir Matthew,” said Barclay shortly. “You’ve got to the end of your tether, and I shall have to put you in my lawyer’s hands.”

“What, just now, when I have only to go on to be a rich man?”

“My dear Sir Matthew, for two years past I’ve supplied your wants, and you’ve been for ever dangling before my eyes the bait of a rich marriage, when you would pay me back. No more money, sir, from me.”

“Barclay, my dear fellow, don’t be a fool.”

“I’ve just told you that I do not mean to be,” said Barclay shortly. “No hundred from me, Sir Matthew.”

“What, not if the matter were settled, and it was a case of post-horses, Dover, Continent, and a wedding abroad?”

“With some penniless girl,” growled Barclay.

“With a lady of property and title, sir. Hush! be quiet—On my soul, Barclay. It’s all right and settled. A rich marriage.”

“Stuff, sir! If it were a rich marriage you would not need money.”

“Preliminary expenses, dear boy. I can’t ask her to pay the postboys.”

Barclay looked at him keenly.

“Is this a fact?”

“Yes; to-night, sir. Honour bright. Don’t spoil sport, Barclay.”

The money-lender pursed up his lips and twisted a pen in his fingers for a few moments.

“Well, Sir Matthew,” he said at last, “I’ll give you this chance. If it does not come off your commission is mine. You’ll have to sell out.”

“And I will, Barclay. But there’s no fear. The game’s won, sir. After a long siege the lady has at last surrendered.”

“A young and pretty woman, eh, Sir Matthew?”

“Well—er—not too young,” said the great dragoon. “I don’t care for bread-and-butter misses.”

“Drelincourt, sure enough,” said Barclay to himself, as he wrote out the customary form on a bill stamp. “Well, let the old fool marry him. He’ll make her pay for it pretty sharply, I’ll be bound. I shall get my money back, and he’ll save his commission, which will go for future loans.”

“There, Sir Matthew, sign that, please,” he said aloud.

“Barclay, you’re a gentleman. I’m a made man, and you shall have all the other bills taken up.”

He scratched his name across the bill, passed it back, and Barclay counted out some notes and gave them in exchange.

“That’s your sort,” cried Sir Matthew, counting the notes. “Why, Barclay, the bill was for a hundred. Here are only notes for sixty.”

“Quite right, Sir Matthew: the other is for the discount.”

“Oh, but—”

“My dear Sir Matthew, if you are dissatisfied, pray give me the notes, and I’ll tear up the bill. You forget the risk. Those are my terms.”

“Oh, but, Barclay.”

“What’s he making you smart, Matt?” cried Sir Harry, joining them. “Just his way.”

“I’ve offered to cancel the bill, if Sir Matthew likes,” said Barclay.

“Have you got any money at all, Matt?”

“Yes, some, but—”

“Hang it! Come along then, man; we’ve no time to lose. Come on and chance it.”

Sir Harry took his friend’s arm, and hurried him out, and Barclay was nodding his head thoughtfully as the door closed, but only for another to open, and Mrs Barclay to enter and sit down, making the entries of his two transactions as a matter of course.

“Old woman,” said Barclay quietly.

“Jo-si-ah!” she said, turning to him quickly, and laying her hand upon his.

“I try to think Claire Denville a good girl.”

“I’m sure she is,” cried Mrs Barclay. “Oh, Josiah, why do you talk like that?”

“Because things look ugly, old lady, and I shall be very sorry if you’ve been deceived.”

“Oh, but, my dear,” panted Mrs Barclay, “I’m sure.”

“One can’t be sure of anything with a pretty well-flattered woman. You know what you said about that row at Denville’s, when Sir Harry Payne was found with Claire that night.”

“Yes: I said it was May, and I’m sure of it.”

“You’re not sure, old lady—you can’t be. Suppose it was Claire after all.”

“I say it was May. Claire Denville couldn’t do such a thing.”

“I don’t know. I hope not,” said Barclay. “I want to believe in her. Well, Joseph?”

“Two chaises to-night, sir, Moggridge says. Sir Harry Payne and Sir Matthew Bray.”

“That will do. Well, old lady?”

“It can’t be for Claire, Jo-si-ah, I’m sure,” cried Mrs Barclay. “She wouldn’t look at that miserable fop.”

“Suppose he is jackal for Rockley, old lady?”

“Oh, Jo-si-ah, don’t. It must be for her sister May.”

“No, I think not. She and Burnett have got on all right lately, and Payne hasn’t been near her, that I know. Look here, old woman, I won’t believe it if I can help it, but it looks very much as if Claire is really going off to-night.”

“Then she shan’t,” cried Mrs Barclay, beginning to cry. “If the poor girl has been worked upon just when she was poor and miserable, and has been weak enough to consent, she shall find she has got a friend who will stand by her, and give her good advice, and stop her. Jo-si-ah, I love that girl as if she was my own child—and—”

“Well?”

“I shall go down to their house and see her and talk to her, and I shall stop with her till I know she’s safe. That is, mind, if it’s true. But it ain’t.”

“Well,” said Barclay, “you shall do so, for I don’t want her to go wrong. Only mind this, it is suspicious that she has not been near you lately.”

“Not it,” said Mrs Barclay, “bless her! She’s had some reason, and—there, that’s her knock, I’ll swear.”

She ran out of the room, and came back directly with Claire, looking more pale and troubled than ever, leaning upon her arm.

Mrs Barclay darted a triumphant look at her husband, and Barclay took Claire’s hand in a grave distant manner that made the visitor wince.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

Mrs Barclay has her Turn.

Claire winced again, and involuntarily glanced at the door, repenting that she had come, as she saw Mrs Barclay frown and make a series of grimaces at her lord, all of which were peculiar enough to a stranger, but which simply meant to the initiated: “Go away and leave us together: I can manage her better than I could if you stayed here.”

Barclay comprehended from old experience all that his wife meant to signify, and, making some excuse, he shortly left the room.

“There, that’s right, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay warmly. “Men are such a nuisance when you want to have a nice cosy chat. Why dear, dear, dear, how white you look. Your bonny face oughtn’t to be like that. You’ve been wherriting yourself over something. It isn’t money, is it?”

“No, Mrs Barclay, we seem to have been a little better off lately.”

“But you are in trouble, my darling? Now don’t say you aren’t, but speak out plain to me. Oh, I wish I could make you believe that I am a very, very true friend, and that I want to help you. There, I know: you’ve been falling out with Cora Dean.”

Mrs Barclay prided herself on this as being a master stroke of policy to draw Claire out and make her ready to confide in her; but Claire shook her head and smiled sadly.

“No,” she said dreamily, “I am not in trouble about that. I thought I would call and see you to-day. There, I must go now.”

“Is that all?” said Mrs Barclay in a disappointed tone. “Why, I was in hopes that you were over head and ears in trouble, and had come to me for help.”

“Mrs Barclay!” exclaimed Claire.

“No, no, no, my dear. What a stupid old woman I am! I didn’t mean that, but if you were in trouble, I hoped that, seeing how much you are alone, you had come to me for help and advice.”

Claire’s face worked and her lips quivered. She vainly tried to speak, and finally, utterly broken-down with the agony of her encounters on the previous day with Louis and her sister, with the following sleepless night and the despair of the present day, during which she had been vainly striving to see some way out of the difficulty, she threw herself upon the breast offered to receive her troubles and sobbed aloud.

“I knew—I knew,” whispered Mrs Barclay, soothing and caressing the poor girl by turns. “I knew as well as if some one had told me that you were in trouble and wanted help. There, there, cry away, my darling. Have a good long patient one, and don’t hurry yourself. You’ll be a world better afterwards; and if you like then to tell me about it, why, you see, you can, and if you don’t like to, why, there’s no harm done.”

Even if the amiable plump old soul had said nothing more than the first sympathising words, Claire’s emotion, so long pent up, would now have had its vent, the tears seeming to relieve her overburdened brain as she clung to her hostess, listening, and yet only half hearing her whispered words.

It was perhaps as well, for with all its true-heartedness there was a comic side to Mrs Barclay’s well-meant sympathy; and some of her adjurations to “cry away,” and not to “stop it,” and the like, would have provoked a smile from anyone who had been present at the scene.

“There, there, there, then, that’s better,” cried Mrs Barclay, beaming in Claire’s face and kissing her tenderly. “Now you’ll be comfortable again; and now, my dear child, we’re all alone, and if you like to make a confidant of me, you shall find you can trust me as much as my Jo-si-ah can. But don’t you think I’m a scandal-loving old busybody, my dear, for I don’t ask you to tell me anything.”

“You are always so good to me, Mrs Barclay,” sighed Claire, clinging to the ample breast.

“Oh, nonsense, my dear. I only offer to be your confidant, so as to help you in your trouble. For you are in trouble, my dear—dreadful trouble, and it hurts me to see you so—hurts me, my dear, more than you think for, so what I say is—If it does you good to come and sit with me and be comforted by having a good cry over me, just as if you were my little girl, why you shall, and I shan’t ask you a single question; but if you think such a silly stout old woman can do you any good by giving you advice, or—now don’t be offended—finding you money; or by asking my Jo-si-ah what to do—”

“Mrs Barclay!” cried Claire in tones of dismay, and with her cheeks flushing.

“Ah, that’s the way of the world, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay with a quiet contented smile, as she drew Claire’s head back upon her shoulder, and stroked and patted her cheek. “You don’t know my Jo-si-ah. He seems a rough harsh-spoken old money-grubber, but he’s the tenderest-hearted, most generous man that ever lived. There, there, you needn’t speak. I was only going to finish and say Claire Denville has two true friends here in this house; and as for me, here I am, ready to help you in any way, for I believe in you, my dear, in spite of everything that has been said, as being as good a girl as ever breathed.”

“Heaven bless you!” exclaimed Claire, nestling to her; “you are a true friend, and I will tell you all my trouble.”

“That’s right, my dear, so you shall, and two heads are better than one. Shall I help you?”

“Oh, yes, yes, Mrs Barclay, if you can. I am so helpless, so weak with this new trouble, I don’t know what to do.”

“No; and you’ll be driving yourself half crazy, my dear,” whispered Mrs Barclay. “Why, I know as well as can be what it is.”

“You know, Mrs Barclay?”

“To be sure I do, my dear. Now, why not let me ask him here some day, and just talk the matter quietly over with him?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Claire; “but he is so impetuous, and the situation is so horrible.”

“Not a bit of it, my dear. Of course, he is impetuous. Enough, to make him, hearing such things as he does; but just you let me get him here some day and have a chat with him, and then you see him, and try and understand each other. Never mind about the money, my dear: be poor and happy. Love’s better than riches; and the happiness enjoyed by two good people who really care for each other is—well, I don’t want to be single.”

“Mrs Barclay! What do you mean?”

“Why, that with all his doubts and distances, Richard Linnell worships you as much as you love him.”

“Oh, hush, hush, hush!” cried Claire piteously. “Don’t talk about that, Mrs Barclay. It is impossible.”

“It isn’t, my dear, and that’s flat. You’re being cruel to him, and more cruel to your own dear self. Come, now, try and be advised.”

“Mrs Barclay,” cried Claire wildly, “you don’t know. My trouble now is far greater than anything about self;” and, clinging to the only friend she seemed to have, she told her all.

Mrs Barclay sat with wide-open eyes to the very end, and then, in the midst of the terrible silence, she took out a violently-scented pocket-handkerchief, and wiped the dew from her brow, as she said softly:

“Oh, my gracious me!”

“It has driven me nearly mad,” cried Claire, wringing her hands, “and while I stay here something terrible may have happened. I must go—I must go.”

“No, no; sit still, my dear,” cried Mrs Barclay, drawing her back to her side, and speaking in a quick, businesslike way. “I was quite knocked over by what you said. My poor, dear child! Is there to be no end to your troubles? But there, we mustn’t talk nonsense, but act sensibly. This is like a smash—a sort of bankruptcy, only it’s what Jo-si-ah would call social and not monetary. There, there, it’s a terrible business, but I’m glad you’ve had the courage to tell me. Oh, my dear, I’ve always said to Jo-si-ah that she was a wicked little thing who was getting you into trouble. But let that go. Now, then, what to do first? Your poor father don’t know a word?”

“I have not dared to tell him.”

“No, and you’ve been screening her, and taking care of that little one, and—dear—dear—what a world this is! Tut—tut—tut! I am doing nothing but talk. Now, look here, Claire; the first thing that strikes me is that she must be got away—right away—for the present.”

“Yes, yes; but how?” cried Claire.

“Jo-si-ah shall settle that.”

“Mr Barclay!” cried Claire in terror.

“To be sure, my dear. We want a strong man to act in a case like this. Your sister must be got away somewhere, and you must go with her. You had both better go to-night. No one shall know where you are but Jo-si-ah and me, and you can take care of her until Jo-si-ah has told your father all about it.”

“Yes,” sighed Claire, as her companion’s calm, businesslike manner impressed her.

“If we tell him first he will do no good, poor man, only be horribly upset, and there’ll be no end of scenes, and no business done.”

Claire acquiesced with a look.

“Then Jo-si-ah can settle it all with your father and Mr Burnett, and this Mr Gravani, what is to be done in a businesslike way. There, there, let me finish. The weak little thing has got herself into this dreadful tangle, and what we have to do is to get her out the best way we can. It’s of no use to be sentimental and sit down and cry; we must act like women.”

Claire looked at her in admiration, astounded by her friend’s calm, businesslike manner.

“Now, perhaps, my dear, my Jo-si-ah may upset all my plans by proposing something better; but, as far as I see it now, you had better go straight off to your sister May—it will soon be dusk—and bring her here. I’ll be ready and waiting, and I’ll go with you both to the coach. You had better put on veils, and we’ll go right away to London. It’s the best place to hide, as my Jo-si-ah knows with the people who don’t pay him. Yes, that’s best. I’ll go with you.”

“You will go with us, Mrs Barclay?”

“Of course, I shall, my dear, and stay with you till you’re out of your trouble, and Jo-si-ah has finished the business. Did you think I was a fine-weather friend?”

Claire could not speak; her kisses and clinging arms spoke her thanks.

“Yes, that’s as far as I can see it, and we must be quick.”

She rose to go to the bell.

“What are you going to do?” cried Claire, in alarm.

“Ring for Jo-si-ah, and to send our Joseph to book three seats for the coach.”

“But Mr Barclay? Must you tell him—now?” faltered Claire.

“Why, of course, my dear, or we may be too late. Do you know that some one else is evidently making plans?”

“What do you mean?” cried Claire excitedly.

“We know a great deal here, my dear. My husband has to keep an eye upon the slippery people who borrow money of him; and there was a hint brought here to-day that a certain gentleman was going to elope to-night with a certain lady, and the idea was that you were the lady. We know it was Sir Harry Payne.”

Claire caught at her friend’s arm as she went on.

“But I said ‘No;’ it is only a miserable scandal, based upon that wretched business at your house. ‘It’s Mrs Burnett,’ I said, ‘if it’s anyone.’ Claire, my dear, she is in this dreadful fix, and she is going off to-night with that fop to escape from it.”

Claire’s lips parted as she looked at the speaker in horror, realising it all now, and reading May’s excuse to gain time.

For a moment the deceit and cruelty of the act seemed too horrible; but she was now thoroughly realising the nature of her sister, and was so agitated that she felt almost paralysed as she stood gazing straight before her.

“I cannot believe it, Mrs Barclay,” she said at last. “It is too terrible. My poor sister would never be so base.”

“Go at once, my dear. Stand no nonsense with the little thing. I’ll settle it all with my Jo-si-ah. You bring her here.”

Claire was white as ashes now, as she caught Mrs Barclay’s hands and kissed them.

“No, no, my dear; not my hands. There, go, and heaven bless you. We’ll help you through it, never fear.”

She folded Claire in her arms for a moment, and then hurried with her downstairs, and let her out.

“One moment, my dear,” she whispered, detaining her, to thrust her purse in her hand. “Stop for nothing. Bring her here; drag her if she says she will not come. Say anything, but bring her here.”

“Ah!” sighed Mrs Barclay, as she watched Claire disappear down the street, and then closed the door. “Now for Jo-si-ah.”

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

The Master of the Ceremonies is Stung.

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 Six.

On the Downs.

High up on the Downs behind the town lay a patch of wood, dwarfed and stunted in its growth by the sharp breezes that came off the sea. The soil in which they grew, too, was exceedingly shallow; and, as the chalk beneath was not very generous in its supply of nutriment, the trees sent their roots along the surface, and their low-spreading branches inland, with a few shabby twigs seaward to meet the cutting blasts.

Right through this patch of thick low wood ran the London Road, and across it the coast road, going west, while a tall finger-post that had once been painted stood with outstretched arms, bending over a little old grey milestone, as if it were blessing it for being so humble and so small.

It was along this road that Richard Linnell, Mellersh, and James Bell had cantered, and then turned off at the cross, on the night of their pursuit, and the chalky way looked much the same beneath twinkling stars on the night succeeding the day when Louis Gravani had had his interview with Claire, as on that of Mrs Pontardent’s party.

The similarity was increased by the presence of a yellow post-chaise; but it was not drawn up at the back of Mrs Pontardent’s garden, but here on the short turf close up to the trees and opposite the finger-post.

The chaise, an old yellow weather-beaten affair, seemed to be misty, and the horses indistinct in the darkness, looking quite the ghost of a vehicle that might be expected to fade away like a trick of the imagination, everything was so still. The very horses were asleep, standing bent of knee and with pendent heads. One of the wheelers, however, uttered a sigh now and then as if unhappy in its dreams, for it was suffering not from nightmare, a trouble that might have befallen any horse, but from the weight of the sleeping postboy on its back. The man evidently believed in his steed as an old friend, and had lain forward over the pommel of his saddle, half clasping the horse’s neck, and was sleeping heavily, while his companion, who rode one of the leaders, had dismounted and seated himself upon the turf where the road was cut down through the chalk, so that his legs were in the channel and his back against a steep bank.

They had been asleep quite an hour, when a quick step was heard, a misty-looking figure in a long grey wrapper, and closely-veiled, came along the road, stopped short by the postboys, retreated and whispered softly as the turf opposite was reached:

“Hist! Are you there? Oh, gracious! What a wicked girl I am! He has not come.”

The figure seemed to take courage and approached the chaise again.

“He may be inside,” she said softly, and going on tip-toe to the door her hand was raised to the fastening, when one of the wheelers snorted and half roused the mounted postboy.

“Hullo, then, old gal,” he muttered loudly. “Yo—yo—yo—yo—yo! Gate—gate.”

“What shall I do?” exclaimed the veiled figure, and she seized one of the spokes of the wheel and clung to it as the other postboy, slightly roused by his companion, took up his cry and shouted drowsily:

“Yo—yo—yo—yo—yo! Gate—gate!”

The horses sighed, and the men subsided into their nap, a long ride on the previous evening having made them particularly drowsy.

“Talking in their sleep,” said the veiled figure, raising herself and trying the handle of the chaise door, opening it, and reaching in to make sure whether it was tenanted or no.

“Not come,” she sighed. “He must be late, or else I’ve missed him. He is looking for me. Oh, what a wicked girl I am! What’s that?”

She turned sharply round, darting behind the chaise and among the trees as a faint sound was heard; and this directly after took the form of footsteps, a short slight man approaching on the other side of the road, stopping to gaze at the chaise and then backing slowly into the low bush-like trees, which effectually hid him from sight.

There was utter stillness again for a few moments, when the dull sound of steps was once more heard, and another short slight figure approached armed with a stout cane.

He kept to the grass and walked straight up to the sleeping postboys, examined them, and then stood listening.

“Just in time,” he said to himself. “Drowsy dogs! Ha—ha—ha! I wish Dick Linnell were here. I should like the fool to see her go. Hang it! I’d have given Harry Payne fifty to help him on the road if he had asked me. Get rid of her for good, curse her! I’m sick of the whole lot. Eh! What, the devil—”

“What are you doing here, Burnett?” said Richard Linnell, crossing the road from the Downs in company with Mellersh.

“What am I doing? Taking the air. Did you think I was going to elope in a post-chaise. Hist! don’t speak aloud or you’ll wake the boys. But, I say—hang it all—have I been humbugged? Was it you then who were going off with Claire, and not Sir Harry Payne?”

“Do you want me to horsewhip you, Burnett?” cried Linnell in a low, passionate voice.

“Not I. There, don’t be cross. I can’t help it, if she is going.”

Linnell turned from him impatiently, but Burnett followed.

“Let her go, man. What’s the good of worrying about her? Better for both of us.”

“Come aside,” said Mellersh softly. “Here they are.”

Linnell seemed disposed to stand fast, but Mellersh took his arm.

“Look here, my dear boy,” he whispered. “You don’t want to interfere. Let her go.”

Linnell turned upon him fiercely, but he yielded to his companion’s touch, and they walked on some twenty yards, followed by Burnett, who was laughing to himself and nibbing his hands.

“Lucky I heard,” he said to himself. “I only want to be satisfied.”

The steps approaching were not those of a lady and gentleman, but of Lord Carboro’ and Barclay, who, in utter ignorance of anyone but the postboys being at hand, stood for a few minutes listening.

“Yes, Barclay,” said the former. “I could not bear for the poor girl to go without making a step to save her. I’m an old fool, I know, but not the first of my kind. I tell you, asking nothing, expecting nothing, I’d give ten thousand pounds to feel that I had not been deceived in her.”

“Pay up then, my lord, for I tell you that you have been deceived. Once more: the lady is May Burnett, her sister.”

“I’m assured that it is Claire Denville, and if it is, Barclay, I’ll save her, damme, I will, if I shoot the man.”

“But, my lord—”

“Don’t talk to me, sir. I tell you if I saw her going to the church with a fellow like young Linnell I’d give her a handsome present; but I can’t bear for such a girl as that to be going wrong.”

“Unless it was with you, my lord,” said Barclay abruptly.

“You confounded rascal! How dare you!” snarled Lord Carboro’. “Do you think I have no good feeling in me? There, you wouldn’t believe in my disinterestedness, any more than I would in yours. Don’t talk. What shall we do? Pay the postboys and send them off?”

“No, my lord: stand aside, and make sure that we have made no mistake.”

“If you have made no mistake,” said his lordship quickly; and he and his companion had hardly drawn aside into the convenient wood to swell the circle gathering round the intending evaders, when Richard Linnell made a step from his concealment and was arrested by Mellersh, as Burnett whispered:

“What are they here for?”

Just then one of the postboys yawned and stretched himself, making noise sufficient to awaken his fellow, who rose from the bank and flicked his whip.

“How long have we been here?” said the man on the horse.

“Hours, and not a soul come. My ticker’s been asleep as well,” he muttered, after pulling out his watch. “I believe the ’osses have been having a nap too. I say, I’m getting sick of this.”

“Think they’ll come?”

“Hang me if I know. Guv’nor seems to have been about right.”

“Why, what did he say?”

“You was there and heard him.”

“No: I was in the stable.”

“Said two po’chays was ordered, and he’d only horses for one. That it was certain as it was a ’lopement, that both parties wouldn’t come, and perhaps neither of ’em. If they did, Sir Matthy Bray and Sir Harry Payne had better fight it out, and the gals go home. Hist! Is that them?”

The two men listened attentively as steps were heard, and the listeners in the wood were all on the qui vive.

Directly after, Sir Harry Payne came up.

“Seen a lady, my lads?”

“No, sir. Been on the watch ever since we come, and no one’s been near,” said the first postboy.

“Humph! Past time. Horses fresh?”

“Fresh as daisies, Sir Harry. Don’t you be afraid. No one’ll catch us.”

“Are you sure you’ve both been watching? Not been asleep, have you?”

“Sleep a-top of a horse, Sir Harry? Not we.”

“Mount!” cried Sir Harry to the second man. “Here she comes.”

What followed was the business of a few moments. A slight little veiled figure came panting up, and was caught in Sir Harry’s arms.

“At last!” he cried. “This way, little pet-curse the woman! What are you doing here?”

Claire Denville’s cloak dropped from her shoulders as, panting and utterly exhausted with the chase after her sister, she flung her arms about her and held her fast.

“May!” she panted. “Sister, are you mad?”

“You’ll make me in a moment,” cried Sir Harry. “Curse you! Why do you interfere?”

“May!” cried Claire again. “For pity’s sake—for the sake of your husband, do not do this wicked thing. Come back with me; come back. No one shall know. Sister, dear sister, before it is too late.”

“Nay, it is too late,” whispered Sir Harry. “Choose; will you go back to misery and disgrace?”

At the edge of the wood the scene was just visible, but the words were inaudible. Burnett had not at first recognised his wife; but Claire’s voice rang out clear, and with a sneer he turned to Richard Linnell:

“There!” he said. “What did I say? What are you going to do now?”

“Try and save your foolish wife, idiot, if you are not man enough to interfere.”

He sprang out of the wood as he spoke, but ere he could reach the group, Sir Harry Payne, by a brutal exercise of his strength, swung Claire away from her sister; and as she staggered on the turf she would have fallen but for the quick way in which Richard Linnell caught her in his arms.

She clung to him wildly, as she strove to recover herself.

“Help! Mr Linnell! Quick! my sister!” she panted, as Sir Harry Payne hurriedly threw open the door of the chaise.

“In with you—no nonsense, now,” he cried to May. “Be ready, my lads—gallop hard. I’ll pay!”

He was leaning towards the postboys as he spoke, but as the words left his lips they were half drowned by a piercing shriek that rang out upon the night, sending a thrill through every bystander. It was no hysterical cry, but the agony and dread-born appeal for aid from one in mortal peril.

Sir Harry held the door open, and stood as if paralysed by the cry, for as if instantaneously, a dark lithe figure had glided out from beneath the chaise, caught May’s arm, and, as the word “Perfida!” seemed hissed in her ear, there was a flash as of steel, and a sharp blow was delivered like lightning, twice over.

“Curse you!” cried Sir Harry. “Cowardly dog!” He seized May’s assailant by the throat, but only to utter a low cry of pain, and stagger back from the effect of the heavy blow he received in the shoulder.

To the startled spectators at hand it was all like some scene in the half-light of a drama. No sooner had the dark figure rid himself of Payne than he glided rapidly beneath the chaise again, and before those who ran up to arrest him could reach the farther side of the vehicle, he had darted into the wood and was gone. Just then a voice cried: “Help! for heaven’s sake, or she’ll bleed to death.”

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

“Too Late! Too Late!”

The words uttered by the first to run to May Burnett’s help seemed to paralyse the party instead of evoking aid, while in the horror and confusion there was no attempt made to pursue, so stunned were all by the rapidity with which one event had succeeded the other.

Lord Carboro’ was the first to recover himself.

“This is no place for you, Miss Denville,” he said. “Will you place yourself under my protection? Or, no,” he added hastily; “Mr Barclay, take Miss Denville home.”

Barclay took a step towards Claire, who stood as if turned to stone, staring wildly at where her sister lay upon the turf, with Mellersh kneeling beside her, while Sir Harry Payne also lay without motion.

“Who was that man who struck Mrs Burnett?” said Lord Carboro’ sharply, but no one answered. “Mr Burnett,” he continued to that individual, as he stood aloof looking on, but speechless with mortification and rage. “Will no one speak? Who is this? You, Mellersh?”

“Yes,” was the reply, in a low, pained voice. “This is a terrible business, Lord Carboro’.”

“It generally is when a lady tries to elope and is stopped. Curse me, though, what a coward that Burnett was to set some one to strike her.”

“Did he?” said Mellersh, in a curious tone.

“Yes; didn’t you see? Is she fainting?”

“Yes,” said Mellersh. “Here, Linnell, help Miss Denville into the chaise, and she can support her sister.”

“No; I forbid it,” cried Lord Carboro’ sharply. “I—”

“Hush, my lord!” whispered Mellersh. “Do you not see? The wretched woman is stabbed.”

“Stabbed!”

“Claire! Claire! Help! Claire!” wailed May faintly. At her sister’s wild cry a spasm seemed to shoot through Claire’s frame, and she wrested herself from Linnell, and threw herself beside the wretched little woman where she lay.

“May—sister,” she whispered.

“Take me—take me home,” said May, in a feeble, piteous voice. “Did you see him? I was frightened. I was going and he—he stabbed me.”

“Help! A doctor! For heaven’s sake, help!” cried Claire. “May, May, speak to me—dear sister.”

She raised the frail little figure in her arms as she spoke, till the pretty baby head rested upon her bosom, and Linnell shuddered as, in the dim light, he saw the stains that marked her dress and Claire’s hands.

“Miss Denville,” he whispered, “let Colonel Mellersh place her in the chaise. She must be got home at once.”

“Yes,” said Mellersh solemnly. “I can do no more.”

As he spoke he gave a final knot to the handkerchief with which he had bound the slight little arm.

“Who did this?” cried Lord Carboro’ quickly. “Mr Burnett, do you know?”

Burnett did not speak, and the answer came from May, in a feeble, dreamy voice.

“It was poor Louis,” she said. “I saw him this evening—watching me—he must have followed. Ah!”

“Quick! Get in first, Miss Denville,” cried Mellersh. “Draw her away, Dick, for God’s sake! The poor little thing will bleed to death. Good heavens!”

The last words were uttered in a low tone, as from out of the darkness a tall gaunt figure staggered up and sank down beside the injured girl.

“Too late! Too late! May! my child! Blood! She is dead—my darling. She is dead!”

“Hush, sir! She has fainted,” cried Linnell. “Mr Denville! For heaven’s sake, sir, be firm. Command yourself. A terrible mishap. Mrs Burnett must be got back to the town at once. Can you act calmly?”

“Certainly. I’ll try,” groaned the Master of the Ceremonies; and then, “Too late—too late!”

He rose, holding one little hand in his as Claire tottered into the carriage, and May was lifted to her side.

“Now, Mr Denville. In—quick!” cried Linnell. “Straight home. The postboys shall warn a doctor as they pass.”

The door was banged to, the orders given, and the next minute the horses were going at a canter, on no flight to London, but back to the Parade.

Richard Linnell stood gazing after the departing post-chaise for a few moments, to start as a hand was placed upon his shoulder.

“Is she hurt badly, Mellersh?” he whispered.

“Badly? Yes,” was the reply. “I’m afraid it is the last ride she will take—but one.”

“For heaven’s sake, gentlemen, lend a hand here,” cried Lord Carboro’ impatiently; and they turned to where Barclay was now kneeling by Sir Harry Payne, that worthy having just struggled back from a fit of fainting.

“Cursed cowardly blow,” he said in a shrill voice. “Who was it—Burnett? Why couldn’t he call me out?”

“Don’t talk, man,” cried Lord Carboro’. “Here, Mellersh, the fellow’s bleeding like a pig.”

“Am I?” cried Sir Harry faintly. “Damn it. A surgeon. The post-chaise.”

“A knife,” said Mellersh shortly, as he made as rapid an examination as he could in the darkness.

A pocket-knife was handed to him by Barclay, and he ripped up the coat and threw it aside.

“Is—is it dangerous?” faltered Sir Harry.

“Dangerous enough for you to be more silent,” said Mellersh. “Another handkerchief, please. That’ll do. Yes. I’ll use both. There, Sir Harry,” he said, as he bound up the prostrate man’s arm, “we are only a mile from the barracks. You must contrive to walk.”

“Sick as a dog,” muttered Sir Harry; but he struggled to his feet with a little help. “Don’t—don’t let that little beast Burnett come near me. Mellersh, your arm.”

There was no need for his desire to be attended to, for Burnett had stood looking on for a few minutes, and then gone off, to be slowly followed by the others, the wounded man being compelled by faintness to halt from time to time till the barrack gate was reached.

Half an hour later Lord Carboro’ was in consultation with Barclay, Mellersh, and Linnell outside the Denvilles’ house.

“Gravani?” said Lord Carboro’, “to be sure—Louis Gravani. I gave him some painting to do when he was here. Italian—and the knife—a former lover, of course?”

“Mrs Barclay tells me, my lord,” said Barclay, gravely, “that he was really Mrs Burnett’s husband.”

“Dick,” said Mellersh, as they were walking slowly back, “of what are you thinking?”

“Of Claire.”

Mellersh said no more, but when they reached home sat musing over the fact that there was a light in Cora’s window, and that she was looking out. But it was not for him.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

The Friend in Need.

There was quite a meeting at little Miss Clode’s the next morning, after a heavy storm that had set in during the night; but, though the ordinary atmosphere was fresh, clear, cool and bright after the heavy rain, the social atmosphere grew more dense and lurid, hour by hour, as the callers rolled the news snow-ball on till Annie Clode’s eyes looked as if they would never close again, and her mouth formed a veritable round O.

Miss Clode herself was in a state of nervous prostration, but she forced herself to be in the shop and listen, gathering scraps of information which she sifted, casting aside the rubbish and retaining only what was good, so as to piece together afterwards, and lay before herself what was the whole truth.

The accounts were sufficiently alarming; and among others it was current that Sir Harry Payne was eloping with Claire Denville, when Mrs Burnett followed to stop them, and Frank Burnett in a fit of rage and jealousy, stabbed her and Sir Harry.

Another account stated that it was Sir Matthew Bray who had stabbed Mrs Burnett, and that he had been seized and put in prison for the deed, while Lady Drelincourt had gone mad from love and misery, and had been found by Fisherman Dick and a couple of friends six miles inland, lost on the Downs, drenched with rain, and raving so that she had had to be held down in the cart that the fishermen had been using to carry mackerel.

Everybody smiled at the word mackerel, and thought of French brandy for some reason or another.

This last business was as much canvassed as May Burnett’s injury, for subsequent inquiry proved that Lady Drelincourt really had been brought home by Fisherman Dick, and that she was delirious and attended by two doctors.

Sir Matthew Bray, too, was certainly in prison, and nobody troubled him or herself to discriminate between an arrest for debt set about next day by Josiah Barclay, and one for some criminal offence.

The whole affair was like a godsend, just when scandal was starving for want of sustenance, and Saltinville at its lowest ebb.

Some one had seen the postboys, and knew that Lord Carboro’ was up at the cross-roads, where he had gone to fight a duel with Colonel Mellersh over a card-table quarrel, and they happened to be just in time to help May Burnett when her sister stabbed Sir Harry Payne.

Some one else quarrelled indignantly with this version, for she knew from Lady Drelincourt’s maid that it was her ladyship herself, who in a fit of indignant jealousy had stabbed Claire Denville and Sir Matthew Bray, whom everyone knew she loved desperately, and that she had afterwards gone distracted because she had nearly killed Sir Matthew.

This narrator went off in high dudgeon on being openly contradicted, and told that she was entirely wrong, for the fact was that young Cornet Morton Denville, who saved Lady Drelincourt’s pet dog, and for whom her ladyship had bought a commission, had challenged Sir Matthew Bray to fight with swords at the cross-roads. They had met, but Lady Drelincourt, in alarm, had gone and told Morton Denville’s sisters, and they had all three gone up together in a post-chaise with Sir Harry Payne on horseback. They had come up just in the heat of the fight, and Sir Harry and Mrs Burnett had rushed between them, and both been wounded; and in her horror at being the cause of such bloodshed, Lady Drelincourt had exclaimed, “I would give my diamonds and everything I possess to be able to undo this terrible night’s work.”

Such minute knowledge carried all before it, and for quite an hour this was the accepted version.

Somehow, Louis Gravani, save with three or four of the witnesses of the tragedy, dropped entirely out of the affair, going as suddenly as he had come, though he seemed always present in the little bedchamber on the Parade, where May lay almost at the point of death, muttering feebly, and appealing to him not to be so cruel as to kill her, because she always thought that he was dead.

The surgeon had done all that was possible, and he had consulted with the principal physician as to the course to be pursued; and then, in the face of two grave wounds in the neck and breast of the frail, childish little creature, they had left her to the wild delirium that had set in—one whose fever was burning away rapidly the flickering life that was left.

The window was wide open, and the soft, low rush of the water upon the shingle floated in like soft, murmurous music through the flowers that it had always been Claire’s pleasure to tend. Then a faint, querulous cry, oft repeated, came from seaward, where the soft grey-plumaged gulls swept here and there, and dipped down at the shelly shoals laid bare as the tide ebbed and flowed. It was a weird, uneasy sound, that accorded well with the painful scene in the chamber given up to the sick girl, by whose side stood Claire, pale and anxious, ready to fan the burning face, or rearrange the bedclothes tossed uneasily away.

Near the foot of the bed sat the Master of the Ceremonies, grey, hollow-cheeked, and with a wild look of despairing horror in his eyes, as he gazed at his little fallen idol, for whom he had fought and schemed, and whom he had so obstinately held aloft in his own heart, to the disparagement of her patient, forbearing sister.

“Is it true, Claire?” he murmured at last; “is it true, or some dreadful dream? My child! My child!”

Then his face grew convulsed with horror, as May turned her face towards him, and began speaking rapidly:

“Don’t, Louis—pray: don’t.—No: I am afraid.—Take me away quickly, dear.—No one will know, and I hate him so.—Little mean wretch!—They made me marry him, and I hate him more and more.—Hush!”

Denville groaned, and, as his head drooped upon his breast, Claire heard him murmur:

“Is it a judgment—is it a judgment for the past?”

She shivered as she listened to his words, but a quick movement and a low cry of pain made her bend over her sister again.

“Take me away,” she said, after a few moments; and her pinched face bore a look of terror that stabbed those who watched with an agonising pain. “I tell you I hate Frank, and I dare not meet poor Louis now. It is not he, but something from the dead. Claire—Claire—hold me. Sister, help! Don’t let me go. Am I going to die?”

“May, May!” whispered Claire soothingly, as she laid her cheek against the burning face; and the sick girl sighed, and made an effort to cling to her, but her feeble arm dropped heavily upon the coverlid.

“Don’t let Louis come now. Is that Frank? Is that—”

She wandered off, muttering quickly and incoherently as she threw her head from side to side for a time; and then, utterly exhausted, seemed to sleep.

“Has—has Frank Burnett been?” whispered her father, looking timidly at Claire.

She shook her head sadly.

“No,” said Denville; “he will not come. He would not even if she were to die. She must get better; and we will do as you have often said: go right away, where we are not known, and where we shall be safe.”

In spite of herself, Claire darted at him a horrified look, which he saw and winced at, as he rose feebly, and began to pace the room, stopping at length before the window to gaze out at the sunlit sea.

“Strange!” he murmured; “the world so beautiful, and my life one dreary course of agony and pain. Claire, what do the doctors really think—that she will live?”

“I pray God they do!” said Claire solemnly.

“Yes; she must live and repent. There is pardon for those who suffer and repent, my child. Don’t look at me like that; you do not know. Claire, is this my punishment? Surely no worse suffering can befall me now.”

“Dear father,” whispered Claire; “let the past be dead.”

“Hush!” he cried, grasping her hand; “Don’t talk of death, girl—here. She must live, and we will go away before—before it is too late. Has Morton been?”

Claire shook her head mournfully.

“No; he would not come. He must not come,” said the old man quickly. “He is well placed, and he must not come near such pariahs as we are. No, no; don’t look like that,” he whispered passionately. “Why should he drag himself down? It is too much to ask of the boy.”

He went on tip-toe to the bed, and took the little feverish hand that lay outside the coverlid, and kissed and stroked it as he muttered to himself:

“Poor little wandering lamb! So weak and timid, and ready to go astray; but you are safe here with me. Oh, how wrong everything is!”

Claire glanced at him, half stunned by this new trouble; and, as her father talked of punishment, and the impossibility of a greater trouble than this befalling them, a cold hand seemed to clutch her heart, and a vague, black shadow of another horror came back with double force, she shuddered, and devoted herself more and more to her task of attending the sister sick apparently unto death.

As she sat there, with the shadow of death impending, after the first shock, it seemed to lose its terrors, and she found herself looking upon it as less dreadful than she had been wont to do. There was rest in it, and a cessation from the pain and suffering that had so long been her portion; and, as the hours rolled on, her throbbing brain grew dull and heavy, her own suffering lighter, and she seemed better able to attend to the sufferer at her side.

Towards noon there was a soft knock at the front door, and Isaac—who had been planning with Eliza an immediate flight from the grief-stricken house, on the ground that, even if they lost their wages, it was no longer a place for them to stay at—opened it, and told the visitor that Miss Denville could see no one.

“But me, young man,” said the caller, quietly entering. “You need not say I’m here. I shall go up soon, and you have got to go on to my house for another basket like this, only bigger.”

She patted the one she carried—one which she had crammed with such things as she thought would be useful at such a time.

Isaac gave way, allowed Mrs Barclay to go up to the drawing-room, and directly after called Eliza into his pantry to tell her that his mind was made up, and that they must go at once.

Mrs Barclay did not hesitate for a moment, but went softly up to the bedroom, tapped gently, and turned the handle to enter on tip-toe.

“I’ve only come to help, my dear,” she said softly, as she clasped Claire in her arms. “We weren’t quick enough, my dear,” she whispered, “or we might have saved all this.”

There was no reply, and after a time, in respect to Claire’s wishes, Mrs Barclay went downstairs.

“I shall be there if you want me, my dear. Don’t you go and think that you are left alone.”

Mrs Barclay had hardly seated herself in the dining-room, and taken some rather grubby work from her pocket, when she heard a peculiar noise, and the bump of something being placed heavily upon the floor.

She listened, and heard some one ascend the stairs again, and there was a whispering, which ceased as the whisperers ascended, and then there was silence, and Mrs Barclay took a stitch, and thought and wondered whether Cora Dean would come, or whether the Denvilles would be cut by everyone now.

Then she took another stitch, and nibbed her nose, which itched.

“Poor little soul!” she said to herself, “it’s come home to her at last. I never thought any good of her, but I’m not one to go on punishing those who’ve done wrong.”

Mrs Barclay took another stitch and began to think again.

“Jo-si-ah says if they catch the little Italian fellow, he’ll be transported for life, and if poor little Mrs Burnett dies, they’ll hang him. Well, I don’t hold with hanging people, so I hope she won’t die.”

She took another stitch and drew the thread through very slowly.

“Jo-si-ah says Sir Harry isn’t very bad, and the constable and a magistrate have been to see him, but he says he knows nothing hardly about it. Poor Claire! What a house this is! What trouble!”

She took another stitch.

“I wonder whether Richard Linnell will come. I shall begin to hate him if he doesn’t stand by the poor girl in her distress. He’s a poor shilly-shally sort of a fellow, or he’d believe in her as I do.”

There was quite a vicious stitch here.

“Perhaps, it isn’t his fault. She kept him at a distance terribly, and no wonder with the troubles she’s had; but of course he can’t understand all that, being impetuous, like my Jo-si-ah was, and I dessay it will all come right at last. Now, what are they lumping down the stairs, making a noise, and that poor child so ill?”

She threw her work on the table, got up softly, and, just as there was a fresh bump and a whispering, she opened the door to find Isaac and Eliza standing over a box which they had just set down in the passage beside another, while Isaac in plain clothes and Eliza with her bonnet in her hand started at seeing the visitor.

“Why, highty-tighty, who’s going away?” cried Mrs Barclay wonderingly.

Eliza glanced at Isaac, who cleared his throat.

“The fact is, ma’am, this young person and I have come to the conclusion that seeing how we suffered from arrears, and what goings on there are here, Mr Denville’s isn’t the service in which we care to stop any longer.”

“Oh,” said Mrs Barclay; “and have you told Mr Denville you are going?”

“Well, ma’am; no, ma’am. We have thought it is not necessary under the circumstances, and—”

“Nor yet, Miss Claire?”

“No, ma’am; she is too busy.”

“Then just you take those boxes up again, young man, and take off that finery, and put on your livery,” said Mrs Barclay in a low angry voice. “Now, no words. You do as I say—there take those boxes up.”

The tone of voice, manner, and a hint about the wages had their effect. Isaac and Eliza glanced at each other, and took the boxes away without a word, Isaac coming back in livery a quarter of an hour later to tell Mrs Barclay that “that soldier” was at the back door.

Mrs Barclay started and followed Isaac, to stare in wonder at the fine soldierly young fellow, who eagerly asked her a score of questions about Claire and May, and, declining to be questioned in turn, hurried away with troubled mien.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

May Begins to See.

“Claire.”

It was the faintest whisper of a call, but she to whom it was addressed heard it, and leaned over the bed to lay a cool hand upon the little wistful face looking up from the pillow.

“How long have I been lying here, Claire?”

“Hush, dear; don’t talk,” said Claire tenderly, “you are still so weak.”

“Yes, but I must know. If you do not answer my questions, I shall fret and die sooner than I should do if you told me.”

“Six weeks, dear.”

“Six weeks!” sighed May; “and it seems like a dream. Since I seemed to wake up the day before yesterday, I have been thinking about it all, and I recollect everything now.”

She spoke with perfect calmness, and as she went on, Claire’s brow wrinkled.

“Poor old dad! How fond he is of me, and how ready to forgive me,” she went on quietly. “Has Frank Burnett been?”

Claire shook her head.

“Not once?”

“No.”

“Ah, well, I suppose he would not come. He felt that I was not his wife, and he was glad to cut himself clear from such an unhappy family. Has Sir Harry sent?”

“May! dear May!”

“I only wanted to know, Claire,” said May quietly. “Don’t be angry with me, dear. It’s all over now. Is he better?”

“I believe so. He has gone away.”

“Thank God!” said May fervently.

Claire turned upon her with wondering eyes.

“Yes,” she said again. “Thank God! I should not have liked to see him again, nor to know that he had been to ask for me. I am so weak, Claire. I always—I was so different to you.”

Claire sighed, and bent down and kissed the white forehead, beneath which the large eyes look unnaturally bright.

“That’s nice,” said May, with a sigh of content. “I wish I had been born such a girl as you. Always so calm and grave. I was so different. I used to feel, and I am sure of it now, that I was like one of the pretty little boats out there at sea, with the great white sails, that are blown over sometimes for want of ballast. I never had any ballast, Claire, and that made me giddy.”

“Had you not better be silent now, May dear?” whispered Claire.

“No. Perhaps I may not be able to talk to you again, and I should like to tell you everything that is in my mind.”

“May, dear!” cried Claire, kissing her lovingly.

“You forgive me, then?” sighed May. “I’m glad of that, for I want a deal of forgiving—here—and there,” she added, after a pause.

“Which may come the easier, dear, for a life spent in repenting what is past.”

“Yes; that would be easy, Claire, easy enough; but it is better as it is with me. I should be so weak and foolish again if I got well.—Claire.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Has poor Louis been seen again?”

“No: not since that night.”

May lay silent for a few minutes, and then said softly:

“It seems very cruel of him to strike me like that, but he had been true to me, Claire, and I was so weak I couldn’t be true to him, and he is not like us; he is foreign, and loves and hates so passionately. It made him angry and mad against me. As soon as I saw him in the street, after I had written to ask Sir Harry to take me away, I knew there was danger, and I tried so hard to escape. I felt obliged then. Sir Harry had often before begged me to go, but I never would.”

“Hush! May, I beg of you.”

“No: I must talk,” said May. “I will speak softly so that it shall not hurt me much; but I want to be made happy by telling you everything and getting you to freely forgive me.”

“I do—I do freely forgive you, everything, May, dear sister,” whispered Claire, “and you must get well quickly, so that we may go far away from here, and begin life afresh.”

“Yes,” said May, with a peculiar smile, “far away, and begin life afresh.”

Claire saw her peculiar look, and held her tightly to her breast.

“Yes,” said May softly, “it means that, dear. I’ve always been like a spoiled child. Poor papa has made me his idol, and I’ve been so weak and foolish. I can see it all now, since I have been ill. Claire, I hope they will not take poor Louis and punish him for this.”

“No, no, dear; he has gone far away; but pray, pray, say no more.”

“I must,” she said smiling. “I have wasted so much time that I cannot spare a moment now. Ah, Claire, if I had been like you!”

“I wish you had been happier than ever I have been,” said Claire sadly. “Now try and sleep.”

“I want to talk to you about baby, Claire dear,” continued May, without heeding her sister’s words.

She laughed softly, and her sister gazed at her in wonder, thinking that she was wandering again, as in the days of her long delirium.

“I was laughing about baby,” she said. “Such a droll little soft thing. I laughed when I saw it first, for we both seemed to be such bits of girls, and it seemed such nonsense for me to be the poor little tot’s mother. I have never been like a mother to it, though, leaving it always to strangers; but you, Claire, you will see to it, and be a better mother to her than ever I could.”

“You shall get better, May, and make your little one a blessing to you when we are far away from here.”

“Yes,” said May with the same peculiar look, “far away from here. Poor little baby! Does my father know?”

“Yes: everything now, dear.”

“Oh, yes, I had forgotten: he kissed me as if he did, and forgave his weak, wilful child.”

“How is she?” whispered Denville, entering the room softly a few minutes later.

“Asleep,” said Claire in the same tone.

“Is she—do you think she—”

He trailed off in his speech, and ended by looking imploringly in his daughter’s face.

“I dare not say,” said Claire mournfully. “Father, she is very ill.”

“Then you must nurse her, Claire,” said the old man excitedly, as he caught her hand to hold it tightly. “You must get her well, so that we can go—all go—far away—where we are not known. We cannot stay here in misery and debt and disgrace. Everything is against us now. My old position is gone. I dare not walk to the Assembly-Room, for fear of some insult or slight. I am the Master of the Ceremonies only in name. I am disgraced.”

“Then we will go,” said Claire sadly; “but it cannot be yet. Have patience, dear.”

She laid her hand upon the old man’s shoulder, and bent forward and kissed his cheek.

He caught her in his arms.

“You do not shrink from me?” he said bitterly.

“Shrink? No, father; I am your child. Now, tell me—about money—what are we to do?”

Denville shook his head.

“There is only one way out of the difficulty, Claire.”

“A way, father?”

“Yes; Lord Carboro’ spoke to me again this morning on the Parade. He came up to me like the gentleman he is, and just as I had been openly cut by townsman after townsman. He shook hands with me and took my arm, Claire, and—and—I told him he might come here—to-day—and speak to you.”

“Oh, father, what have you done? You have not taken money from him?”

“No—no—no!” cried the old man indignantly. “I have not sunk so low as that; but it was tempting. That man Isaac has grown insolent, and has twice come home intoxicated. Claire, I am the fellow’s slave while I am in his debt. I want to send him away, but I cannot. Hush!”

There was a double knock at the door, and Denville went softly down, leaving Claire with a fresh agony to battle against, for, few as had been her father’s words, they had been sufficiently plain to make her ask herself whether it was not her duty to give up everything—to sell herself, as it were, to this old nobleman, that her father might be saved from penury, and her sister placed beyond the reach of want; for her home must in future be with them.

“Have we not at last reached the very dregs of bitterness?” she said wildly. “Heaven help me in this cruel strait!”

The door opened softly, and Denville signed to Claire to come to him on the landing.

“It is Lord Carboro’,” he whispered. “You must speak to him.”

Claire shrank back for a moment, but her firmness returned, and she closed the door and followed her father to take his hand.

“I would do everything, now, father, even to this,” she said solemnly; “but it is impossible. Ask yourself.”

“Yes,” he said sadly, “it is impossible. But it is very hard—to see wealth and prosperity for you, my child, and to have to say no. But it is impossible. Speak gently to the old man. He has been a good friend to me.”

It seemed as if a mist was about her as Claire Denville entered the drawing-room, beyond which she could dimly see Lord Carboro’, looking almost grotesque in his quaint costume and careful get-up, fresh from the hands of his valet. He had been labouring hard to appear forty; but anxiety and the inexorable truth made him look at least seventy, as he rose, bowed, and placed a chair for the pale, graceful girl, and then took one near her.

The old man had prepared a set speech of a very florid nature, for, matter-of-fact worldling as he was, he had felt himself weak and helpless before the woman for whom he had quite a doting affection. But the sight of Claire’s grief-stricken face and the recollection of the suffering and mental care through which she must have passed, drove away all thought of his prepared words, and he felt more like a simple-hearted old man full of pity than he had ever been before.

He took her hand, which was given up unresistingly, and after a thoughtful look in the calm clear eyes that met his, he said slowly:

“My dear Miss Denville, I came here to-day, a vain weak man, full of the desire to appear young; but you have driven away all this shallow pretence, for I feel that you can see me clearly as what I am, an old fellow of seventy. Hush! don’t speak my dear child till I have done. I have always admired you as a beautiful girl: I now love you as the sweet, patient, suffering woman who has devoted herself to others.”

“Lord Carboro’—”

“No, no; let me try and finish, my dear. I will be very brief. It would be a mockery to speak flattering follies to such a one as you. Tell me first—Did your father give you to understand that I was coming?”

Claire bent her head.

“Then let me say simply, my child, that if you will be my wife and give me such love as your sweet dutiful heart will teach you to give to the doting old man who asks you, I will try all I can to make your young life happy, and place it in your power to make a pleasant home somewhere for poor old Denville, and your sister. We must bring her round. A trip abroad with your father, and—and—dear me—dear me, my child, I am rambling strangely, and hardly know what I say, only that I ask you to be my wife, and in return you shall be mistress of all I possess. I know the difference in our ages, and what the world will say; but I could afford to laugh at the world for the few years I should be likely to stay in it, and afterwards, my child, you would be free and rich, and with no duty left but to think kindly of the old man who was gone.”

Claire listened to the old man’s words with a strange swelling sensation in her breast. The tears gathered slowly in her eyes as she gazed wistfully at him, wondering at the tender respect he paid her, and one by one they brimmed over and trickled down.

She could not speak, but at last in the gratitude of her heart, as she thought of the sacrifice he made in offering her rank and riches, after the miserable scandals of which she had been the victim, she raised his withered hand slowly to her lips.

“No, no,” he cried, “not that. You consent then?”

“No, my lord,” said Claire firmly. “It is impossible.”

“Then—then,” he cried testily. “You do love someone else.”

Claire bowed her head, and her eyes looked resentment for a moment. Then in a low sweet voice she said:

“Even if I could say to you, Lord Carboro’ my heart is free, and I will try to be your loving, dutiful wife, there are reasons which make it impossible.”

“These troubles—that I will not name. I know, I know,” he said hastily; “but they are miserable family troubles, not yours.”

“Troubles that are mine, Lord Carboro’, and which I must share. Forgive me if I give you pain, but I could never be your wife.”

The old man dropped the hand he held, and his face was full of resentment as he replied:

“Do you know what you are throwing away?” Then, checking himself, “No, no, I spoke angrily—like a thoughtless boy. Don’t take any notice of my words, but think—pray think of your father—of your sister. How you could help them in the position you would hold.”

“Lord Carboro’,” said Claire, “I am weak, heart-sick and worn with watching. I can hardly find words to thank you, and I want you to think me grateful, but what you ask is impossible. It can never be.”

The old man rose angrily and took a turn or two about the room, as he strove hard to fight down his bitter mortification.

Twice over he stopped before her, and his lips parted to speak, but he resumed his hurried walk, ending by catching her hands and kissing them.

“Good-bye,” he said abruptly. “I shall try to be your friend, and—and I never loved you half so much as I do now.”

He left the room, and Claire heard his footsteps on the path, and then, in spite of herself, she stole towards the window from which she saw him go slowly along the Parade, looking bent, and as if his coming had aged him ten years at least.

The opening of the drawing-room door roused Claire, and turning, she saw that her father had entered, and that he was trembling as he gazed at her with a curiously wistful look that was one long question.

Claire shook her head slowly as she returned his gaze, with her thoughts reverting to the night when she sank fainting where she stood, and the notes of the serenade floated in at the window.

“No, father,” she said softly; “it would be impossible.”

“Yes,” he said feebly; “impossible!”

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

The Storm-Cloud Bursts.

That night, as Claire sat by the open window of her bedroom, where May lay sleeping, and the flowers that she had tended so carefully in the past for the most part withered and dry, her thoughts went back to the morning’s interview with Lord Carboro’, and there was a feeling of regret in her breast as she thought of the old man’s chivalrous devotion.

Then her heart seemed to stand still, and again beat with a wild tumult as she told herself that the silent reproach she had felt was not justified; that it was her own doing, that Richard Linnell was not at her side. For that was his step, and she knew that he would stop opposite to her darkened window and gaze upwards before passing on.

There was pleasure and yet pain in the thought, for she felt that though it was impossible that they could ever even be friends, he must believe in her and she must dwell in his heart.

How often might he not have passed like that, and looked up, thinking of her!

It was a pleasant thought, but one that she dismissed at once, as if it were a temptation.

Trying to stop her ears to the sounds, she crept back from the window, and bent over May, who seemed to be sleeping more easily; and a feeling of hope began to lighten the darkness in her heart, and the black shadow of dread that so oppressed her was forgotten, till, all at once, it came back, blacker, more impenetrable than ever, as the sound of voices loud in altercation rose from below.

Claire’s heart stood still, and she held on by a chair-back, listening with her lips apart, and wondering whether this was the bolt fallen at last—the blow she was always dreading, and that she felt must one day come.

She crept to the door, passed out and listened, closing it after her that the noise might not awaken May, to whom sleep meant life.

Angry voices rose, and then there were the sounds of blows struck apparently with a cane. Then there was a scuffling noise, and the front door was driven back.

“Leave the house, scoundrel! leave my house, insolent dog!” came up sharp and clear in her father’s voice, quivering with anger, and the scuffle was renewed.

“You pay me my wages; you pay me what you owe me, or I don’t stir a step.”

The voice that uttered these last words was thick and husky, and full of menace. It was a familiar voice, though, that Claire recognised, and her cheeks burned with shame as she felt that passers-by, perhaps Richard Linnell, would hear the degrading words that were uttered.

Her sister lying there sick, and this pitiful disturbance that was increasing in loudness, and must be heard by any one who happened to be upon the Parade!

She hurried down to find that the scuffling sounds had been renewed, and as she reached the passage it was to find that her father was trying to drag Isaac to the door, and force him into the road, where quite a little crowd was collecting.

“Leave this house, sir, directly.”

“I shan’t for you,” cried Isaac, resisting stoutly. “I want my wages. I want my box.”

“Leave this house, you drunken insolent scoundrel!”

“Father! for pity’s sake,” cried Claire, trying to interfere.

“No, no; stand back, my child,” cried the old man angrily. “He has come back again to-night tipsy. He has insulted me once more, and he shall not stay here—I can turn him out, and I will.”

“Not you, and I shan’t go,” hiccupped Isaac, seizing the plinth at the bottom of the balusters and holding on. “I don’t go from here ’thout my money—every penny of it, so now, old Denville.”

“Pray, pray let me pass, father, and shut the door,” cried Claire.

“No, my dear,” said the old man, whose blood was now up. “He shall leave this house at once.”

“No, I shan’t leave neither without my box.”

The struggle went on, and the lamp would have been knocked off the bracket but for Claire’s hand. The contending parties swayed here and there, but it was evident that the footman was far the stronger, while Denville’s forces were failing moment by moment.

“Can I be of any assistance, Mr Denville?” said a voice that thrilled Claire through and through, but which made her shrink back up a few stairs to avoid being seen.

“Who’s that?—Mr Linnell? Yes,” panted Denville. “My servant, sir—my lacquey. This is the fourth time he has come back from being absent without leave, intoxicated, sir. Tipsy. Not fit to come into a gentleman’s presence.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Isaac—“Gentleman’s presence! I don’t call you a gentleman. Why, you’re all that’s mean and shabby and poor. Just you pay me my wages in arrears.”

“Come to-morrow, scoundrel,” said Denville loftily. “Mr Linnell, if you would kindly send one of the people outside for a constable. He will find one by the Assembly-Room. Let him say that the man is wanted at Mr Denville’s—at the Master of the Ceremonies’, and he will come on directly.”

Linnell glanced up at where Claire was turning back in shame and distress of mind, little thinking that in a few minutes she would be bravely standing at her father’s side.

“Fetch a constable!” cried Isaac defiantly. “Do, if you dare. What do I care for a constable?”

“Why don’t you pay the man his wages?” said a voice at the door.

“Ah, to be sure,” cried Isaac, with a tipsy laugh. “Why don’t you pay the man his wages? ’Cause you can’t. Beggarly old upstart.”

“Silence, you scoundrel!” cried Linnell fiercely, “or I’ll drag you out and throw you over the cliff for your insolence.”

“Do it—do it!” cried Isaac fiercely. “Who’s afraid?”

“Silence, dog!” cried Denville, catching up his cane.

“Don’t strike him, Mr Denville,” said Linnell. “Some one there fetch a constable. Five shillings for the first man who brings one here.”

“Don’t you, m’lads,” cried Isaac. “He daren’t send for a constable. I tell you he daren’t—not for me. Send for one for himself.”

Claire trembled and shuddered at those words; and, had it been possible, she would have ended the scene at any cost, but she was helpless.

For a moment Linnell had thought of seizing and dragging out the tipsy servant; but on second consideration he felt that it might just as well be done by some one in authority, so, hurrying out, he despatched one of the crowd in another direction to that taken by the two or three who had hurried off on the promise of a reward, and then turned back to see if he could be of any further service.

“Cons’able for me!” said Isaac, with tipsy gravity. “I like that. I like that—much. Let him come. Make him pay me my wages. Then I’ll go. Not before, if all the old Masters o’ Ceremonies in England wanted me to go.”

“The insolent scoundrel!” panted Denville; “after all I’ve done for him since he came to me a boy.”

“Done for me! Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Isaac; “kept me on short commons, and didn’t pay my wages. Now, then, are you going to pay my money?”

“Here he is.” “Here’s one,” rose in chorus, and way was made for the fussy-looking individual who occupied the post of chief constable of Saltinville.

“Now, then, what’s this?” he said.

“Tipsy servant,” chorussed half—a—dozen voices. “Drunk.”

“My servant, Mr Cordy,” said Denville importantly. “He has misconducted himself again and again. You see the condition he is in.”