George Manville Fenn (continued 9)

“Yes, I see,” said the constable. “Come along.”

“Wait till he pays my wages,” hiccupped Isaac.

“You can talk about that another time,” said the constable importantly. “Come along.”

He seized the footman, gave him a shake which wrenched his fingers from their hold upon the bottom of the balusters, and with another shake jerked him upon his feet.

But Isaac was not going to be dragged off like that without making a scene, and he shouted out:

“Stop!”

“Well, what is it?” said the constable.

“Does he give me into custody, cons’ble?”

“Yes. Come along.”

“Then I give him into custody—do you hear?—custody—for murder. I won’t go alone.”

“There, come along, fool,” cried the constable.

“No—not without him,” cried Isaac. “Murder!”

“Silence!” cried Denville excitedly, as Claire rushed down the stairs and caught her father’s arm.

“Shan’t silence!” yelled the man, who now threw off his half-tipsy, contemptuous manner, and seemed stung by the treatment he had received into a fit of furious passion. “I give him into custody—for murder.”

“Nonsense! Hold your tongue, and come along,” cried the constable; while Linnell seized the man on the other side, and hurriedly tried to force him out.

But it is not easy to get a man along a narrow passage if he resists fiercely; and so they found, for, setting his feet against the edge of the dining-room door, Isaac thrust himself back, and yelled to the throng at the door:

“Do you hear? For murder! I charge this man—Denville—with killing old Lady Teigne.”

“Silence, villain!” hissed Linnell in his ear, as he darted an agonised glance at where Claire was half supporting her father, while the black cloud she had seen impending so long seemed to have fallen at last.

“Silence? When there’s murder?” shouted Isaac. “I tell you I heard a noise, and got up, and then I saw him go to Lady Teigne’s room, the night she was murdered. Ask him there who did it, and see what he’ll say.”

“Father, come away!” panted Claire, as she threw herself before him, as if to defend him against this terrible charge.

“What’s that?” cried the constable. “Oh, nonsense! Come along.”

“I tell you it’s true,” cried Isaac, with drunken fierceness; “it’s true. I saw him go to her room. Let him deny it if he can.”

Denville stood up, holding tightly by Claire’s arm, and looking wildly from one to the other as a strange murmur rose amongst the fast-augmenting crowd. Then, as if it were vain to fight against the charge, he made a lurch forward, recovered himself, and sank into a chair, Richard Linnell catching sight of his ghastly countenance before he covered it with his hands.

“It is a false charge, constable,” cried Linnell hastily. “Take that man away.”

“It’s all true,” snarled Isaac, with drunken triumph. “Look at him. Let him say he didn’t do it if he dare!”

As every eye was fixed upon him, the Master of the Ceremonies did not move; he made no bold defiance, but seemed half paralysed by the bolt that had fallen—one from which his child had failed to screen him, though she had thrown herself upon his breast.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

After the Storm.

Matters ran their course rapidly during the following days. The black cloud that had so long been threatening had come down lower and nearer, and had at last poured forth its storm upon Denville’s devoted head. And now, as he sat thinking, all that had passed seemed misty and dreamlike, and yet he knew that it was true.

There was the finish of that terrible night, when, forced by the direct charge of his servant, the constable had taken steps against him. He had been arrested; there had been magisterial examinations, and appeals to him to declare his innocency; he, the magistrates’ respected townsman, charged with this horrible crime by a drunken servant!

But he had made no denial, only listened with a strange apathy, as if stunned, and ready to give up everything as hopeless. In fact, so willing did he seem to accept his position that, after examination and adjournment—one of which was really to give the broken-down, prostrate man an opportunity for making some defence—the magistrates had had no option but to commit the prisoner for trial.

All Saltinville had been greatly concerned, and thus taken off the scent of the previous trouble at the Master of the Ceremonies’ house. The departure of Frank Burnett from the town, and the state of his wife’s health, became exceedingly secondary matters. Sir Harry Payne’s wound was of no more importance than Lady Drelincourt’s rheumatic fever, brought on by exposure on the Downs at her age. People forgot, too, to notice that Sir Matthew Bray was clear of his arrest, and to heed the rumour floating about at Miss Clode’s, that Lady Drelincourt had paid Sir Matthew’s debts, her affection for the big heavy dragoon having received a strong accession from the fact that her love was no longer divided, her overfed dog having died, evidently from plethora.

Ordinary affairs were in abeyance, and everyone talked of Lady Teigne’s murder, and metaphorically dug the old belle up again to investigate the affair, and, so to speak, hold a general inquest without the coroner’s help.

Lord Carboro’ took the matter down on the pier with him and sat at the end to watch Fisherman Dick shrimping; and as he watched him he did not think of the sturdy Spanish-looking fellow, but of Lady Teigne’s jewels, and as he thought he tried to undo this knot.

“If Denville killed the old woman for her diamonds, how is it he remained so poor?”

“Thinking, Lord Carboro’?” said a voice.

The old beau looked up quickly and encountered the dark eyes of Major Rockley, who had also been intently watching Dick Miggles, using an opera-glass, so as to see him empty the shrimps into his creel.

“Yes: thinking,” said Lord Carboro’ in a short, sharp way. “Like to know what I was thinking?”

The Major shrugged his shoulders.

“Of the sea, perhaps, or the vessels passing, or Lady Drelincourt’s illness.”

“No, sir,” said Lord Carboro’ shortly. “I was thinking of Lady Teigne’s jewels.”

Rockley raised his eyebrows, and looked at the old man curiously.

“Of Lady Teigne’s jewels?”

“Yes, sir; and it seems a strange thing to me that if Denville killed the old woman for her diamonds, he has not become rich.”

“To be sure,” said Rockley; “it does seem strange.”

“It’s all strange, sir, deuced strange,” said the old man. “Took me aback, for I never suspected Denville, and I don’t suspect him now.”

They stood looking at each other for a few minutes, and then Rockley said quietly:

“A great many people seem to believe him innocent. Do you think they will get him off?”

“Yes, of course—of course, sir. It would be an abominable thing to bring such a charge home to the poor old fellow. Why, I suppose, sir, that even you would not wish that.”

“I should be deeply grieved, my lord,” said Rockley. “Good morning.”

“The scoundrel’s still thinking about Claire,” said the old beau, as he sat gazing after the handsome cavalry officer. “Well, it’s of no use to sit here. I’ll go up to Clode’s, and see if there is any news.”

He trudged slowly along the pier and the Parade, stopping now and then to take a pinch of snuff.

He was indulging in a very big pinch, standing by the edge of the path, when there was the trampling of hoofs, and Cora Dean’s pony-carriage was drawn up by his side.

“Let me drive you there,” said Cora’s deep, rich voice.

“Drive me! Where?” said the old man.

“Where you ought to be going; to the prison to see poor Mr Denville, and get him out. I haven’t patience with you people leaving the poor old man there—you who professed to be his friends.”

“Hah! Yes! No, I don’t think I’ll trouble you, my dear Miss Dean,” said the old man, recovering his balance, and speaking in his old sarcastic tone. “You are such a female Jehu.”

“Such a what?” said Cora.

“Female Jehu, my dear. You drive furiously, but you can’t control your steeds. I don’t want to be brought ashore in triumph. It’s all very well for you to come on to the beach like a goddess in your car, but to me it means rheumatism and pain. So, no thanks.”

“And you are going to leave Mr Denville in trouble?”

“Perhaps,” said his lordship drily. “We’re a heartless lot down here, and I’m one of the worst.”

“And you think that poor old man killed Lady Teigne.”

“No, I don’t, my dear Miss Dean; but even if he had done so I don’t think he ought to be punished. It was a meritorious action.”

“Oh, Lord Carboro’!”

“It was, my dear madam; and if some enterprising party would come and kill off Lady Drelincourt and your humble servant, and a few more of that stamp, it would be a blessing to society. What do you think?”

“I think that a poor old man is lying in prison,” said Cora Dean, tightening her reins; “that his broken-hearted child is tending a sick sister, and that the world of society talks about it all as if it were stuff sent on purpose to supply them with news. Lord Carboro’, I used to wish I were well in society. I don’t wish it now. Good morning.”

“One moment,” said the old man hastily. “You’ll shake hands?”

He held out his, but Cora gave it a tap with her whip handle, and her ponies went off at a canter, leaving his lordship hat in hand.

“And looking dooced ridiculous,” he said angrily. And then, “Confound the jade!” he muttered. “How dare she!”

Then his wrinkled countenance changed, and a pleasant smile took the place of the angry look.

“Confound her! What a dig to give me with her sharp tongue. Well, it’s true enough, and I like her for it. Does she like Claire, or does she hate her and pretend to feel all this? Who can say? The more you know of a woman, the greater mystery she seems. Poor old Denville! The place doesn’t seem natural without him and his snuff-box. I miss him horribly. Now I wonder whether they’d miss me if I were to go—as I shall go—soon.”

He walked thoughtfully on.

“Yes; they’d miss me, and talk about me as if I were a confounded old curiosity, and make jocular remarks about my donkey—by George, how my corns shoot, I wish he were here. But no one will care when I’m gone—not one; and no one will be the better for my having lived.”

He walked on slowly, thinking of the last time he had seen Claire, and of the troubles that had fallen to her share, and then he muttered:

“Yes! something must be done.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

From Parade to Prison.

Sunken of eye, hollow of cheek, with the silvery stubble of many days’ growth upon his chin, glistening in the bar of light that came through the grated window, Stuart Denville, Master of the Ceremonies at Saltinville, high-priest to the votaries of fashion who worshipped at that seaside shrine, sat upon his truckle bed, his head down upon his hands, his elbows on his knees, gazing apparently at the dancing motes in the well-defined ray of sunshine that illumined his cell.

It seemed as if he saw in those tiny motes that danced and rose and fell, the fashionable people who had so influenced his career; but hour after hour, as he sat there motionless, thinking of his arrest, his examination, the fashionable world was to him something that had never existed: he could see only the terminative.

On first picturing that terrible end, when, with hideous exactness, the scaffold, the hangman, and the chaplain whispering words of hope and comfort to the thin, grey-haired, pinioned figure moving on in the slow procession had loomed up before him in all their terrible minutiae, he had shivered and shrunk away; but, after a few repetitions of this horrible waking dream, he had grown so accustomed to it that he found himself conjuring up the scene, and gazing at it mentally with a curious kind of interest that gradually became fascination.

As to the final stage, it would not be so painful as many pangs, mental and bodily, which he had suffered; and, as to the future, that troubled him but little. He saw no terrors there, only a long restful sleep, freed from the cares and sufferings that had for long past fallen to his lot.

There were no shudders now, but only a sad wistful smile and a sigh almost of content, the rest of the future seemed so welcome.

“Yes,” he said at last, as he pressed his trembling white hands to his lips, and left his seat to pace the cell, falling for the moment involuntarily into his old mincing pace, but stopping short and gazing up at the little patch of blue sky he could see; “yes—rest—sleep—Oh, God, I am so weary. Let it end!”

He stood with his hands clasped before him, and now a cloud came over his countenance, almost the only cloud that troubled him now. Claire; if she only could know—if he could tell her all—his temptations—his struggles—the long fight he had passed through.

Then he thought over his past—the mistakes of his life. How much happier he might have been if he had chosen differently. How piteous had been all this sham and pretence, what a weary existence it had been—what insults he had suffered for the sake of keeping up his miserable position, and obtaining a few guineas.

May!

The thought of his child—his favoured one, with her pretty innocent rosebud of a face and its appealing, trusting eyes. How he had worshipped that girl! How she had been his idol. How he had believed in her and sacrificed everything for her sake; and now—he lay in prison, one whom the world called murderer; and she, his idol, to whom he had sacrificed so long, for aught he knew, passing away, and everyone turned from him and his family as if they were lepers.

Well, he was a social leper. He had made no defence. This man had charged him with the crime, and he had not denied it. What wonder that people shrank from him as if he were unclean, and kept away. It was his fate. The world turned from him—son—daughter. They feared the contamination of the gaol.

No suffering that the executioner even could inflict would equal the agony of mind through which he had passed.

He clasped his hands more tightly and gazed fixedly before him, his lips moving at last, as he said in a low husky whisper:

“All forsake me now. The Master of the Ceremonies must prepare for the great ceremony of the law. Oh, that it were over, and the rest were come!”

He was at the lowest ebb of his misery amid his meditations and thoughts of home and the social wreck that was there with her thin baby face, when there was the distant sound of bolts being shot. Then there were steps and the rustle of a dress, the rattle of a great key in the door. Next the bolts of this were shot at top and bottom with a noisy jar; the door was thrust open, and the gaoler ushered in a veiled figure in black. Then the door was closed, the locks and bolts rattled; the heavy steps of the gaoler sounded upon the stone floor, and then the farther door opened and closed.

There was a moment’s silence before, with a quick rustling sound, veil and cloak were thrown aside upon the bed, and Claire’s soft arms clasped the wasted, trembling form, drawing the grey careworn face down upon her breast as she sobbed out:

“Father—father, has it come to this?” Denville remained silent for a few moments, and then with an exceeding bitter cry:

“My child! my child!” he wailed. “I said you had forsaken me in my sore need.”

“Forsaken you, dear? Oh, no, no, no!” whispered Claire, fondling him as if he had been a child, and gently drawing him to the bed, upon which she sank, while he fell upon his knees before her, utterly weak and helpless now, as he yielded to the caresses she lavished upon him, and she whispered words that seemed full of comfort—forerunners of the rest he had prayed for so short a tune before.

“Forsaken you?” she whispered. “Oh, my dear, dear father! How could you think it of your child!”

“The world says I am a murderer, and I am in prison.”

“Hush!” she cried, laying her hand upon his lips. “It was only this morning I could get permission to see you.”

She laid her soft white hand upon his lips as she spoke, and then, seeming to make an effort and check her own emotion, she drew him closer to her.

“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.

“One minute,” whispered Fred, wiping the drops from his forehead, as a sudden trembling fit came over him. Then, mastering it, and drawing himself up, he breathed heavily and nodded to the gaoler.

“I’m ready,” he said hoarsely: “open.”

The next minute he was standing in the whitewashed cell with the door closed behind him, locked in with the prisoner and half choked with emotion, gazing down at the bent grey head.

For the Master of Ceremonies was seated upon a low stool, his arms resting upon his knees, and his hands clasped between them, probably asleep. He had not heard the opening and closing of the door, and if not asleep, was so deaf to all but his own misery that Fred Denville felt that he must go and touch him before he would move.

The young man’s breast swelled, and there was a catching in his breath as he looked down upon the crushed, despondent figure, and thought of the change that had taken place. The light from the barred window streamed down upon him alone, leaving the rest of the cell in shadow; and as Fred Denville gazed, he saw again the overdressed leader of the fashionable visitors mincing along the Parade, cane in one hand, snuff-box in the other, and the box changed to the hand holding the cane while a few specks of snuff were brushed from the lace of his shirt-front.

Then he looked back farther, and seemed to see the tall, important, aristocratic-looking gentleman, to whom people of quality talked, and of whom he always stood in such awe; and now, with this came the recollection of his boyish wonder how it was that his father should be so grand a man abroad while everything was so pinched and miserable at home.

Back flitted his thoughts as he stood there, looking down at the motionless figure, to the encounter when he had been surprised by his father with Claire. The terrible rage; the fit; the horrible hatred and dislike the old man had shown, and the unforgiving rancour he had displayed.

Fred Denville sighed as it all came back, but he felt no resentment now, for his breast was full of memories of acts of kindness that had been shown him as a boy, before he grew wild and resisted the paternal hand, preferring the reckless soldier’s life to the irksome poverty and pretence of the place-seeker’s home and its pinching and shams.

“Poor old dad!” he said to himself, as the tears stood in his eyes; “he is brought very low. Misery makes friends. God help him now!”

The stalwart dragoon, moved by his emotion, took a couple of quick steps forward and went down upon one knee by the old man’s side, took his hands gently in both of his own, and held them in a firm, strong clasp, as he uttered the one word—

“Father!”

The touch and the voice seemed to galvanise the prisoner, who started upright, gazing wildly at his son, and then shrank back against the wall with his hands outstretched to keep him off.

There was a terrible silence for a space, during which Fred Denville remained upon his knee, then slowly joining his hands as he looked pleadingly in his father’s face, he said slowly:

“Yes, I know I have been a bad son; I have disgraced you. But, father, can you not forgive me now?”

The old man did not speak, but shrank against the wall, looking upon him with loathing.

“Father,” said Fred again, “you are in such trouble. It is so dreadful. I could not stay away. Let us be friends once more, and let me help you. I will try so hard. I am your son.”

Again there was that terrible silence, during which the old man seemed to be gathering force, and the look of horror and loathing intensified as he glared at the man humbling himself there upon his knee.

“Do you not hear me?” cried Fred, piteously. “Father: I am your son.”

“No!” exclaimed Denville, in a low, hoarse whisper that was terrible in its intensity. “No: you are no son of mine. Hypocrite, villain—how dare you come here to insult me in my misery?”

“Insult you, father!” said Fred softly. “No, no, you do not know me. You do not understand what brings me here.”

“Not know?—not understand?” panted Denville, still in the same hoarse whisper, as if he dreaded to be heard. “I tell you I know all—I saw all. It was what I might have expected from your career.”

“Father!”

“Silence, dog! Oh, that I had strength! I feel that as I gave you the life you dishonour, I should be doing a duty to take you by the throat, and crush it out from such a wretch.”

“He’s mad,” thought the young man as he gazed on the wild distorted face.

“You thought that you were unseen—that your crime was known but to yourself; but such things cannot be hidden, such horrors are certain to be known. And now, wretch, hypocrite, coward, you have brought me to this, and you come with your pitiful canting words to ask me for pardon—me, the miserable old man whom you have dragged down even to this—a felon’s cell from which I must go to the scaffold.”

“No—no, father,” panted Fred. “Don’t—for God’s sake, don’t talk like this. I’ve been a great blackguard—a bad son; but surely you might forgive me—your own flesh and blood, when I come to you on my knees, in sorrow and repentance, to ask forgiveness, and to say let me try and help you in your distress. Come, father—my dear old father—give me your hand once more. Let the past be dead, for Claire’s sake, I ask you. I am her brother—your boy.”

“Silence! Wretch!” cried the old man. “Leave this place. Let me at least die in peace, and not be defiled by the presence of such a loathsome, cowardly thing as you.”

“And you,” said Fred softly, as he held out his hands; “you, I can remember it well, used to hold these hands together, father, and teach me to say, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.’ Father, have I sinned so deeply as all this?”

“Sinned!” cried the old man starting forward, and catching his son by the throat. “Sinned? Blasphemer! coward! hypocrite! You dare to say this to me! Go, before I try to strangle you, for I cannot contain myself when you are here.”

“Father!” cried Fred, kneeling unresisting as the old man clasped him tightly by the throat, “are you mad?”

“Would to God I were before I had lived to see this day,” cried Denville, still in the same hoarse whisper. “But go—I have done ill enough in my wretched life without adding murder to the wrong. Go, and coward that you are, escape to some far-off land where your crime is not known, and there try and repent, if you can. No, there can be no repentance for the coward who destroys one wretched, helpless life, and then to save his own worthless body—he can have no soul—sends his poor, worn-out, broken father to the scaffold.”

Fred did not move, but gazed pityingly in his father’s face.

“You cannot be a man,” continued Denville, “a man as other men. You do not speak—you do not speak. Fool! Murderer! Do you think that your crime was not known?”

Fred still remained silent, gazing in the convulsed face, with the veins in the temples throbbing, the eyes glaring wildly, and the grey hairs seeming to rise and move.

“Speak, since you have forced it upon me, though I would have gone to the scaffold without a word, praying that my sacrifice might expiate my own child’s crime. Speak, I say: do you still think it was not known?”

Fred Denville remained upon his knees, but neither spoke nor resisted.

“I tell you that when I awoke to the horrors of that night, I said to myself, ‘He is my own son—my own flesh and blood—I cannot speak. I will not speak. I will bear it.’ And I have borne it—in silence. Wretch that you are—listen. I have, to screen you, borne all with my lips sealed, and let that sweet, pure-hearted girl shrink from me, believing—God help me!—that mine was the hand that crushed out yon poor old creature’s life.”

“Father, you are raving,” cried Fred hoarsely.

“Raving! It is true. Claire, my own darling, has gone, too, with sealed lips, loathing me, and only out of pity and belief in her duty as a child borne with my presence—poor sweet suffering saint—believing me a murderer, and I dare not tell her I was innocent, and that it was the brother she loved, who had come in the night, serpent-like, to the room he knew so well, to murder, and to steal those wretched bits of glittering glass.”

“My dear father!”

“Silence, wretch!” cried Denville. “I tell you, knowing all, I said that I could not speak, for I was only a broken old man, and that my son might repent; that I could not condemn him and be his judge. And, my God! it has come to this! I have borne all. I have suffered maddening agony as I have seen the loathing in my poor child’s eyes. I have borne all uncomplaining, and when, as I dreaded, the exposure came, I unmurmuringly suffered myself to be taken, and I will go to the scaffold and die, a victim—an innocent victim for you, so that you may live; but let me die in peace. Free me from your presence, and I will wait till, in a better world, my darling can come and say, ‘Forgive me, father; I was blind.’”

“Heaven help me! What shall I say?” muttered Fred. “Poor old fellow! It has turned his brain.”

The old man was in the act of throwing him off and shrinking from him when Fred caught his hands.

“My dear old father,” he said tenderly, “neither Claire nor I believe that you could commit this terrible crime. You must be cleared from all suspicion, and—come—come—let us be friends. You will forgive me, father—all the past?”

“Forgive you? No, I cannot. It is impossible. I have tried. Sitting here alone in this awful silence, with the shadow of the gallows falling across me, I have tried, but it is impossible. I will suffer for your crime. I have told you that I will, but upon one condition, that you never go near Claire again. She thinks me guilty, but she has fought hard and striven to forgive me. Do not pollute her with your presence, but go far away from here. Go at once, lest in the weakness of my nature I should be tempted to try and save myself from death by confessing all.”

“Heaven help me!” said Fred again; “he is mad.”

He had spoken aloud, shaping his thoughts unconsciously, and the old man took up his words.

“God help me! I wish I were,” he said pitifully, “for the mad must be free from the agony which I have to bear.”

Fred rose to his feet and looked at the old man aghast. Then, as if for the first time, he seemed to realise that his father was not wandering in his mind, and clasping the thin arms tightly, he pressed him back into a sitting position upon the bed, bending over him, and, in his great strength, holding him helplessly there, as he said quickly, and with a fierce ring in his voice:

“Why, father, do you know what you are saying? You do not think I killed Lady Teigne?”

“Hypocrite!” cried the old man fiercely.

“Speak out, man!” cried Fred, as fiercely now. “What do you mean? How dare you charge me with such a crime!”

“Hypocrite!” panted the old man again. “You cannot shield yourself now. It is a punishment for my weakness that day—that night. I would not have done it,” he cried wildly, “but I was at my last gasp for money. Everything was against me. I had not a shilling, and there all that day the devil was dancing the jewels of that miserable old woman before my eyes.”

“Father!” cried Fred, “for God’s sake, don’t tell me you killed her—for God’s sake don’t. No, no; it is not true.”

“Silence! hypocrite! murderer!” cried the old man. “Listen. I tell you that all that day the devil was dancing those diamonds before my eyes. I saw them in the glittering waters of the sea. I turned to Claire, and her eyes shone like diamonds. The night came, and the sky was all studded with gems, and they were sparkling and reflected in the water. Diamonds—always diamonds; and above stairs, in that room, a casket with necklet and bracelets, all diamonds, and the devil always whispering in my ear that I had but to get two or three taken out and replaced with paste, while I pledged the real stones for a few months, and redeemed them as soon as I could turn myself round. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you,” said Fred, with a strange look of horror intensifying in his face.

“I fought against the temptation. I struggled with it, as I said that I had always been a weak, foolish fashion-seeker, but an honest gentleman. I swore that I would not defile myself by such a crime; but there were my bills; there was the demand for money for a score of pressing necessities, and the fiend whispered to me that it would not be a crime, only taking them from that miserable old worldly creature as a loan.”

“Go on,” said Fred hoarsely; “go on.” And he stared with horror in the old man’s upturned face.

“Then the night came, and my children went to their beds innocent of the agony I suffered, for there was the temptation stronger than before. I went to my room, and looked out. The sea and sky were all diamonds; and I tore back the blind, and I said that I must have two or three of the wretched stones—that I would have them—borrow them for a time, and be free.”

“Oh, father, father!” groaned Fred; and Denville went on excitedly.

“I said I would have them, and I waited till it would be safe to go. I knew that the old woman would have taken her sleeping-draught, and that it would be easy enough to go in and get her keys—I knew where she kept them—take out the diamond cross, get the stones changed, and replace it before she would miss it the next afternoon.”

Fred groaned, and the old man went on, clutching him now by the arm as he spoke, gazing fiercely in his eyes the while.

“I waited till all were sleeping, and the time seemed to have come, and then, like a thief, I stole out of my room and along the passage, till I was outside the door where the old woman—poor old wreck of a woman—lay. It was only to borrow those diamonds for a time, and I meant to replace them, though I knew that I was little better than a thief—a cold-blooded, treacherous thief—to deal thus with the woman who trusted to my honour for her safety. But I was so sorely pressed for money, I said to myself; and keeping my creditors quiet meant placing Morton and Claire both well in life, and then my troubles would cease. Do you hear me?”

“Yes—I hear,” groaned Fred.

“I stood there on the mat outside her door thinking that, and that it would be for Claire’s sake; and as I thought that, I saw her sweet, pure face before me, as it were, her eyes looking into mine; and I said: ‘How can I ever look into those eyes openly again?’ I felt that I was still a gentleman, but that in a few minutes I should be a despicable thief. Then I raised my hand to open the door, always unfastened so that Claire might go in and out, but it dropped to my side, and I sank upon my knees and prayed for strength to resist temptation, and the strength I asked was given.”

The old man paused, for there was a step outside in the stone passage, and it seemed that the gaoler was coming there; but he passed on, and Denville gripped his son’s arm more tightly.

“I don’t know how long I knelt there, but I was rising with the temptation crushed, and as I rose I was going back to my room.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Fred excitedly, and he breathed more freely.

“Back to my room, boy, when I seemed to be roused from the stupor brought on by my agony of mind, for there was a sound in the countess’s chamber. I listened, and there it was again. It was a confused sound, as if she were moving in her bed, and I thought she must be ill, and want Claire. I was about to go and rouse her, when there were other sounds; there was a loud crash, and I stood as if turned to ice.”

“You heard sounds!” gasped Fred; and he looked horror-stricken and shrinking as his father seemed to grow in strength.

“Yes,” whispered the old man fiercely, as he seemed to fix Fred Denville with his eye; “I heard sounds that froze me with horror, as I felt that my temptation had been in the shape of a warning of evil, and that another was at work in the poor old woman’s room. For a few minutes I could not stir. Then, mastering my horror and fear, and calling myself coward, I hurried into the room, to find myself face to face with him who had entered before. I saw all at a glance, as a hoarse groan came from the bed—the curtain torn aside, and the murderer by the dressing-table, with the jewel-casket in his hand.”

“You saw all this?” cried Fred, white as ashes now. “Father, you saw this?”

“Everything, as I dashed—old weak man as I was—at the wretch who had done this thing. It was only a momentary struggle, and I was thrown down, and saw him dart to the folding-doors and pass through. I staggered after him in time to hear him overturn a pot or two in the verandah, as he swung himself over and slid down the pillar. Then I was alone panting there in that chamber of death; for as I took the candle from the little stand, and drew aside the curtain, it was to gaze down upon the starting eyes of the strangled woman—dead in my house, under the protection of my roof; and, with the horrible thought upon me that only a brief while back I was nearly entering that chamber to play the part of thief, I gave no alarm, but shrank towards the door, and stole out trembling, bathed with sweat, to get back to my room, and try to think out what I should do.”

Fred Denville groaned, and the old man’s breath went and came with the sound of one who has been hunted till he stands at bay.

“I had not been there a minute before I heard steps; a light shone beneath my door, and I sat trembling, utterly prostrated, for I knew that it was Claire who had been alarmed. I wanted to go out and stop her, to set her on her guard; but I sat there as if suffering from nightmare, unable to move, even when she came at last and summoned me; and, like one in a dream, I listened to what she had to say, and followed her to the murdered woman’s room. I could not stay her; I could do nothing. I dared not give the alarm; I dared not speak, but went with her, and saw all again in a dazed, confused way, till I noticed something on the floor, which I snatched up and hid from Claire; and then the confusion was gone—driven away by the agony I felt. My God, what agony, as I read in Claire’s eyes that she believed I had done that deed!”

“She believed this of you?”

“Yes; and believes it still,” groaned the prisoner.

“But—but,” cried Fred excitedly, “what was it you snatched from the floor?”

“A knife; a knife I knew. One that I had seen before.”

“But the murderer—you saw him?”

“Plainly as I see you.”

“But you did not summon help.”

“I could not.”

“I knew you were innocent,” cried Fred excitedly. “I swore you were.”

“I am,” said the old man coldly.

“Should you know the wretch again?” panted Fred.

“Yes; too well.”

“But you did not say this at the inquest.”

“My lips were closed.”

“But, father, you do not—”

“Silence, hypocrite! Enough of this. I could not speak. I dare not tell the world the murderer was my own son.”

Fred Denville drew himself erect. His father rose from the bed, and the two men stood gazing for some minutes in each other’s eyes without a word.

It was the Master of the Ceremonies who broke the spell.

“Now,” he said, “I have spoken. It is enough. Your secret is safe with me. Go. Repent, but do not ask me to forgive you. Ask that of Heaven. I am old and broken, and can die.”

“But, father!” groaned Fred wildly, “it was not I.”

“It was my eldest son. I saw him as he struggled with me—in his uniform, and I picked up afterwards from the floor his knife—his pocket-knife that had been used to wrench open the casket of jewels. The knife with ‘RM’ on the handle. It was given to my son by the fisherman, Miggles.”

“Yes, Dick gave me that knife years ago,” said Fred, speaking like one who has received a tremendous blow. “I have not seen it since that night.”

“No,” said the old man bitterly; “it lies far out beyond the end of the pier, buried deep in sand by now.”

Fred Denville stood holding his hands pressed to his head, staring straight before him at the whitewashed wall, while neither spoke.

The silence was broken by the rattling of bolts and the turning of a key, when the gaoler threw open the door, and, without a word, the dragoon walked, or rather reeled, from the cell, as if he had taken strong drink till his senses were nearly gone.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

Blow for Blow.

Fred Denville went straight to Barclay’s, and was admitted, Claire looking at him reproachfully as he threw himself into a chair.

“Oh, Fred!” she cried, “and at such a time!”

“Not been drinking,” he said; “not been drinking. How’s May?”

“Very ill, dear,” said Claire sadly. “Here?”

“Yes, Mrs Barclay insisted upon her being brought, so that we could be together.”

“God bless her,” said Fred softly. Then, after a pause—“I’ve seen the old man.”

“And you are friends, Fred?”

He shook his head, and sat staring down at the carpet. “But you tried to be, dear?”

“Yes; tried hard. I’ve been. I’ve done my duty—for once,” he said with a strange laugh.

He did not speak again for a few minutes, and Claire sat holding his hand, looking at him doubtingly, his manner was so strange.

“You think I’ve been drinking,” he cried fiercely. “Give a dog a bad name, and then hang him. I haven’t touched a drop to-day.”

He changed his manner to her directly, and his voice was low and tender as he took her to his breast and kissed her.

“Poor little Clairy,” he said; “you’ve had a rough time. Never mind; brighter days coming. The old man will be found innocent.”

“Innocent, Fred?” she faltered.

“Yes, innocent,” he cried. “Wait: you will see. Clairy, look here. Tell me this. Did I ever talk about Lady Teigne’s jewels when I came to see you?”

“I don’t know, dear. Yes, I remember now, I think you did.”

“Hah!” he ejaculated. “I must go now. Good-bye, little woman. I always loved my little sister, always. You know that, don’t you, Clairy?”

“Yes, dear Fred, always.”

“Bad as I was?”

“Oh, Fred, I never thought you bad,” cried Claire piteously. “I only thought it was a pity you did not try to raise yourself, and—”

“Leave the drink alone. Quite right, Clairy. It was the drink. It makes a man stupid and mad. He doesn’t know what he’s about when he has taken too much. Remember that, my dear, it was the drink.”

“Fred, how strangely you are talking.”

“Strangely?” he said, clasping her to his breast, “strangely? Well, I meant to be kind and tender to my poor, suffering little sister. I’ve been a bad lot, but I always loved my little Claire.”

She stood gazing wonderingly after him, he seemed so strange in his way, as, after straining her to his breast, he kissed her passionately again and again, and then turned and literally ran from the room, while, as she placed her hand against her face, she found that it was wet.

“Poor Fred,” she said, “if I could only win him from his ways.”

She said no more, for her thoughts were only too ready to turn to their usual theme—her father and his imprisonment, and she sat down to rest her aching head upon her hand, wondering what had passed during the interview within the prison walls.

Fred Denville found Mr and Mrs Barclay below, and in a quick, agitated way he caught Mrs Barclay’s hand.

“It’s very kind of you to let me call upon my sister,” he said, “seeing what I am. I thank you. I am not coming again.”

“Not coming again? Oh, I’m sure you’re welcome enough, Mr Fred, for your sister’s sake,” said Mrs Barclay, “isn’t he, Jo-si-ah?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Thank you—both of you,” cried Fred hastily. “You are very good, and that’s why I say be kind to my poor sisters, and try and comfort both if anything happens.”

“Oh, but we must not let anything happen,” said Barclay. “The poor old gentleman must be saved.”

“Yes, of course,” said Fred dreamily; “he must be saved. He’s innocent enough, poor old fellow. I did not mean that. You’ll take care of the poor girls, won’t you?”

“Why, of course we will, Mr Fred Denville; of course we will. There, don’t you make yourself uneasy about them.”

“I won’t,” said Fred, in his bluff, straightforward way. “I may be quite happy, then, about Claire?”

“To be sure you may.”

“I shouldn’t like her to suffer any more, and it would be terrible for those wretched dandy scoundrels to get hold of her and break her heart.”

“Don’t you fidget yourself about that, young man,” said Mrs Barclay with quite a snort. “Your dear sister’s too proud for any jack-a-dandy fellow to win her heart.”

“You’re a good woman,” said Fred softly. “I’m not much account as a man, but I know a good woman when I meet one, and I wish I’d had such a one as you by me when I was a boy. If I had, I shouldn’t have been a common soldier now. Good-bye, ma’am; good-bye, sir. Heaven bless you both.”

He hurried out, afraid of showing his emotion, and Mrs Barclay turned round wiping her eyes.

“There, Jo-si-ah, you see everybody don’t think ill of us, bad as we are.”

“Humph! no,” said Barclay thoughtfully; “but I don’t understand that chap—he’s so strange. Why, surely, old girl, he had no hand in that murder.”

“Lor’! Jo-si-ah, don’t! You give me the creeps all over. I do wish you wouldn’t think about murders and that sort of thing. You give me quite a turn. I wouldn’t have my dear Claire hear you for the world.”

“All right! I won’t say anything before her; but this young chap has set me thinking; he seemed so strange.”

Other people thought Fred Denville strange, notably Major Rockley, who, in company with Sir Matthew Bray and Sir Harry Payne, was on the Parade, as, with brows knit and eyes bent down, the dragoon came along, walking swiftly.

The three officers were in undress uniform, having just left parade, and each carried his riding-whip.

Fred did not notice them, he was too deep in thought, and walking straight on he went right between them, unintentionally giving Sir Matthew Bray a rough thrust with his shoulder, for of course an officer could not give way to a private.

It was Fred Denville’s duty, in the character of James Bell, private dragoon, to have saluted his officers and given them all the path, if necessary; but at that moment he could see nothing but the grey white-faced old man in the cell at the gaol, in peril of his life and threatened with a felon’s death.

“I must have been drunk,” he was muttering to himself. “Yes: I remember, I was horribly drunk that night, and didn’t know what I was doing. Poor old father! with all your faults you did not deserve this. Yes: I must have been drunk.”

At this point he was brought from his musings to the present by a stinging cut from a riding-whip across the back, his tight uniform being so little protection that the sharp whalebone seemed to divide the flesh.

With a cry of rage he turned round, and flung out his fist, striking Sir Harry Payne, who had given the blow with the whip, full on the nose, and sending him backwards.

“You insolent dog!”

“You scoundrel!”

The epithets were delivered in a breath by Major Rockley and Sir Matthew Bray, just as Lord Carboro’ approached, walking by Lady Drelincourt’s bath-chair.

It was an opportunity for showing how an insolent drunken private should be treated; and as several loungers of society were coming up, the two officers accompanied their words with a couple of blows from their whips.

It is dangerous to play with edged tools, is proverbially said; and, in his then frame of mind, Fred Denville felt no longer that he was James Bell, the disciplined, kept-down servant and private. He felt as a man smarting from the blows he had received. The service, the penalty for striking an officer, were as nothing to him then; he saw only the big, pompous, insolent bully of his regiment, Sir Matthew Bray, and the man who had insulted him a thousand times, which he could have forgiven, and his sister again and again, which he could not forgive.

With one bound he was upon Sir Matthew Bray, whom he struck full in the chest, so that he staggered back, tripped his heels on the front wheel of Lady Drelincourt’s bath-chair, and fell heavily into the road.

With another bound he was upon Rockley, who had followed and struck him again a sharp, stinging cut.

There was a momentary struggle, and then the whip was twisted out of Rockley’s hand, his wrist half dislocated, and for a couple of minutes the thin scourge hissed and whistled through the air as, half mad with rage, Fred lashed the Major across shoulders, back, and legs, and finally dashed him down with a parting cut across the face.

“That for you, you horsewhipped cur and scoundrel! You disgrace the uniform you wear!”

There was a little crowd gathering, but only one man dared to seize upon the fierce-looking dragoon, and that one was Lord Carboro’.

“Loose my arm,” roared Fred, turning upon him with uplifted whip; but, as he saw who held him, and that Bray and Payne were holding aloof, and helping Rockley to rise, he lowered his whip. “Loose my arm, my lord; you’re an old man, I can’t strive with you.”

“You rascal! You have struck your superior officers.”

“Superior!” raged out Fred. “I have horsewhipped a vile roué for the blow he struck me, and ten times as much for—Keep off!” he roared, as Colonel Mellersh and Linnell joined the group.

“I shall hold you till a picket comes from the barracks, sir, to take you in arrest,” cried Lord Carboro’ sternly.

Fred Denville did not attempt to wrest his arm away, but smiled half contemptuously at the padded, made-up old nobleman, and gave the whip a lash through the air as he stared hard at Rockley, who was white with rage, but talked to him who held his arm.

“Look here, my lord,” he said, “is it amongst your set a social sin for a man to horsewhip the blackguard who insults his sister?”

“No,” said Lord Carboro’ stoutly; “but you have struck your superior officer.”

“I have thrashed the scoundrel who would have dragged my sister in the mire could he have had his way. It was my last act as a free man, and thank God I have had the chance.”

“James Bell,” cried Sir Matthew Bray, “I arrest you. Give up that whip.”

“Touch me if you dare,” roared Fred. “Stand back, or I’ll kill you.”

“Private Bell—”

“Damn Private Bell!” cried the young man fiercely. “My name is Frederick Denville, and I am a gentleman.”

Lord Carboro’s hand dropped to his side, and as the young man faced him for a moment, it was anything but anger that flashed from the old nobleman’s eyes as he muttered to himself:

“Damme, so he is; and he has Claire’s very look.”

Fred Denville strode right away along the Parade, followed at a distance by Linnell and Mellersh, till, to their surprise, they saw him enter their door, no attempt being made to arrest him then.

Volume Three—Chapter Seventeen.

“Surrender!”

“No, Mr Denville, I am a soldier, and yours is a terrible crime against discipline, but I can’t say a word in condemnation of your act.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Will you give me a few words here with Mr Linnell?”

“Yes; but I should advise you to be quick,” said Mellersh. “Hang it, man, they’ll shoot you for this. What’s to be done, Dick? Look here, Denville, can’t you knock one of us down, take a suit of plain clothes and make off. There’s twenty pounds on the chimney-piece yonder.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Fred, smiling sadly; “but I’m not going to run. I shall give myself up.”

“No, no,” cried Linnell excitedly. “For heaven’s sake don’t do that, man. There’s trouble enough in your home. You’ll break her heart.”

Fred Denville swung round in an instant, and caught Linnell’s hands in a strong grip.

“Then you do love her,” he cried, his voice quivering. “My little true-hearted, suffering darling. Oh, man, man, man, don’t let wretched shadows stand between you now. I know everything, and how you have been ready to believe all kinds of unhappy scandals about the best girl who ever lived. Look here—no, don’t go, Colonel; you’ve heard the beginning, you may as well hear the rest. It came out like a flash. Stop now, and hear me, both of you. Ours is an unhappy family; I’ve been a wild, foolish scamp: my father lies in prison under a false charge; he is innocent. I know that such a family is not one that a gentleman would seek to enter, save under exceptional circumstances; but I’ve watched you, Richard Linnell, and I know you loved my sister, and I know that she never had a thought save for you.”

Linnell clenched his hands, compressed his lips, and began to pace the room.

“You, Colonel Mellersh, are a bit of a cynic; you don’t believe in women, but you are mistaken here.”

“What do you wish me to do?” said Linnell hoarsely.

“To do? She is almost friendless, broken-hearted, and has not a strong true hand to take hers, a loyal heart who will stand by her against the world. Richard Linnell, my poor sister is suffering and in pain, and a great trouble is coming upon her that will not balance the joyful news she will soon hear.”

“Then, why not make a dash for it, man, while you have time?” cried Mellersh.

“Because I shall give myself up to the civil authorities, sir; that is all. Mr Linnell, remember what I have said. Good-bye.”

“Too late!” cried Mellersh, as a tramping was heard, and Sir Matthew Bray, a sergeant, and half a dozen dragoons marched quickly up.

Fred Denville’s whole manner had changed.

He dashed to the front. There was no escape there, and the soldiers were already in the hall.

Rushing to the back window he threw it up, but it moved stiffly, and before he had it well raised, the picket was in the room.

“Surrender!” cried the sergeant. “Halt, or I fire.”

For answer Fred Denville rose on the sill and leaped down into the garden, a good dozen feet, and ran swiftly for the wall at the bottom.

“Halt!” roared Sir Matthew; but the fugitive paid no heed, and in response to rapid orders four carbines were raised, there was a ringing little volley, and, to Linnell’s horror, Fred Denville made a bound, and fell upon his face.

“Oh, this is too bad, sir!” roared Mellersh fiercely.

“Mind your own affairs, sir,” said Sir Matthew sharply. “Saved him from being shot after a court-martial.”

In a few minutes the wounded man was borne in and laid in the hall, where Cora Dean was one of the first to fetch restoratives, while her mother brought a pillow and placed beneath his head, for a couple of the dragoons had been sent to fetch the means to transport him to the barracks.

It seemed at first that the one bullet which had struck him had been aimed too truly; but after a few minutes the poor fellow opened his eyes, looked wildly round, and then recognised Linnell.

“Ah!” he ejaculated, “you! Look here. I was on the way—to give myself up—civil authorities—my father—in prison—innocent—Lady Teigne—murder—in a fit of drunkenness—I climbed up—to get the diamonds—save the poor old man—I—I—did the deed.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.

Morton Denville Becomes a Man.

“You here, Morton?”

“Yes. Don’t look at me like that, Claire, pray don’t. You can’t think what I’ve suffered.”

“What you’ve suffered?” said Claire coldly, as she recalled how she had taken a mother’s place to this boy for so many years till he had obtained his advancement in life, when he had turned from her. He had made some amends on the night of Mrs Pontardent’s party; but after that he had heard some whispered scandal, and had kept aloof more and more till the great trouble had fallen, and their father had been arrested, when he had stayed away and made no sign.

It had seemed so hard. When a few words on paper would have been so consolatory and have helped Claire in her agony and distress, Morton had not even written; and now he came to her at last to tell her she did not know what he had suffered.

“You don’t know,” he continued, with the tears in his eyes. “It was bad enough to be in the regiment with Payne and Bray, always ready to chaff me and begin imitating the old man, and that beast Rockley sneering at me; but when people began to talk as they did about you, Clairy—”

“Silence!” cried Claire, flashing up as she rose from her seat, and darted an indignant glance at the boy. “If you have come only to insult your sister—go.”

“Don’t talk like that, Clairy dear,” cried the boy. “Don’t be so hard upon a fellow. I suffered horribly, for they did talk about you shamefully, and I was very nearly calling Sir Harry out, only the Colonel wouldn’t let me fight. I’m sure I behaved well enough. Every one said I did.”

“Why have you come this morning?” said Claire coldly.

“Why have I come? Hark at her!” said Morton piteously. “Oh, dear, I wish I were a boy again, instead of an officer and a gentleman, and could go down and catch dabs with Dick Miggles off the pier.”

“Officer—gentleman? Morton, is it the act of a gentleman to side with the wretched people who made sport of your sister’s fame? To stand aloof when she is almost alone and unfriended, and this dreadful calamity has befallen us? Oh, Morton, are you my brother to act like this? Is it your manliness of which you made a point?”

“Claire—sis—dear sis,” he cried, throwing himself on his knees, and clasping her waist as he burst into a boyish fit of passionate weeping. “Don’t be so cruel to me. I have fought so hard. I have struggled against the pride, and shame, and misery of it all. You don’t know what a position mine has been, and I know now I ought to have taken your part and my father’s part against all the world. But I’ve been a coward—a miserable, pitiful, weak coward, and it’s a punishment to me. You, even you, hate me for it, and—and I wish I were dead.”

Claire’s face softened as she looked down upon the lad in his misery and abasement, and after a momentary struggle to free herself from him she stood with her hands stretched out over the head that was buried in the folds of her dress, and a tender yearning look took the place of the hard angry glance that she had directed at him.

“I have fought, God knows how hard,” he went on between his sobs, “but I’m only a boy after all, sis, and I hadn’t the strength and manliness to stand up against the fellows at the mess. I’ve shut myself up because I’ve been ashamed to be seen, and I’ve felt sometimes as if I could run right away and go somewhere, so that I could be where I should not be known.”

Claire’s hands trembled as they were very near his head now—as if they longed to clasp the lad’s neck and hold him to her breast.

“I’ve been coming to you a hundred times, but my cursed cowardice has kept me back, and everything has been against me. There has been your trouble.”

Claire’s hands shrank from him again.

“Then it was bad enough about father without this horrible charge.”

Claire’s face grew hard and cold, and in a moment she seemed ten years older.

“Then there was poor Fred: Rockley’s servant in my regiment. You don’t know what a position mine has been.”

Claire made no movement now. Her heart seemed to be hardening against the lad, and she shrank from him a little, but he clung to her tightly with his face hidden, and went on in the same piteous, boyish wail.

“I’ve been half mad sometimes about you and your troubles—”

Claire’s hands began to rise again and tremble over his head.

“Sometimes about myself, and I’ve felt as if I was the most unlucky fellow in the world.”

There was a pause here, broken by the lad’s passionate sobs.

“There: you hear me,” he said. “I’m only a boy blubbering like this, but I feel pain as a man. I tell you, Clairy, dear sis, it has driven me nearly mad to know that this false charge was hanging over my father, and that he was in prison. The fellows at the mess have seemed to shrink from me, all but the Colonel, but whenever he has said a kind word to me I’ve known it was because the old man was in prison, and it has been like a knife going into me. I couldn’t bear it. I hated myself, and I fought, I tell you, to do what was right, but I couldn’t. It was as if the devil were dragging at me to draw me away, till this came, and then I felt that I could be a man, and now,” he cried, raising himself, and shaking his hair back, as he threw up his head proudly, “forgive me, sis, or no—Damn my commission! Damn the regiment! Damn the whole world! I’m going down to the prison to stand by my poor old father, come what may.”

“My darling!”

Claire’s arms were round his neck, and for the space of a few minutes she sobbed hysterically, as she strained him to her breast.

“What, sis? You forgive me?” he cried, as her kisses were rained upon his face.

“Forgive you, my own brave, true brother? Yes,” she cried. “Of course I know what you have suffered. I know it all. It was a bitter struggle, dear, but you have conquered, and I never felt so proud of you as I feel now.”

“Sis!”

The tears that stole down from Claire’s eyes seemed to give her the relief her throbbing brain had yearned for all these painful days, and her face lit up with a look of joy to which it had been a stranger for months.

“You will go to him then, dear?” she whispered, with the bright aspect fading out again, to give place to a cold, ashy look of dread, as the horror of their position came back, and the shadow of what seemed to Claire to be inevitable now crossed her spirit.

“Yes, I’m going. Poor old fellow! It will be a horrible shock to him about Fred.”

“About Fred?”

“Yes. Had I better tell him?”

“Tell him?” faltered Claire.

“Yes. I thought not. He has enough to bear. I thought,” said the lad bitterly, “that I was doing a brave thing when they brought him in. I said he was my poor brother: but I found that they all knew. Claire! Sis!”

She had staggered from him, and would have fallen had he not held on to her hand.

“Speak—tell me!” she cried. “No, no! I can’t bear it! Don’t tell me there is some new trouble come.”

“What! Didn’t you know?”

She shook her head wildly, and wrung her hands and tried to speak, while he held her and whispered softly:

“Oh, sis—sis—dear sis!”

“Something has happened to Fred,” she panted at last. “Tell me: I can bear it now. Anything. I am used to trouble, dear.”

“My poor sis!” he whispered.

“Why do you not tell me?” she cried wildly. “Do you not see how you are torturing me? Speak—tell me. What of Fred?”

Her imperious, insistent manner seemed to force the lad to speak, and he said, slowly and unwillingly:

“He was going along the Parade, and ran up against Rockley, and Payne, and Bray; poor chap, he did not salute them, I believe, and Rockley gave him a cut with his whip.”

“Major Rockley!” cried Claire, with ashy lips.

“Yes; and he knocked over Bray and that puppy Payne. Curse them! they were like skittles to him. Fred’s full of pluck; and, sis,” cried Morton excitedly, as his eyes flashed with pleasure, “he took hold of that black-muzzled, blackguard Rockley, snatched his whip from him, and thrashed him till he couldn’t stand.”

“Fred beat Major Rockley?” cried Claire, with a horrified look, as she realised the consequences forgotten for the moment by the boy.

“Yes; thrashed the blackguard soundly; but they followed him with a sergeant and a file or two of men to take him.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“They found him at Linnell’s, talking to Richard Linnell and—”

Morton stopped with white face, and repented that he had said so much.

“I must know all,” cried Claire, trembling. “I am sure to hear.”

“I can’t tell you,” he said hoarsely.

“Is it not better that it should come from you than from a stranger?”

“It is too horrible, sis,” said the lad.

“Tell me, Morton, at once.”

Her words were cold and strange, and she laid her hands upon his shoulders, and gazed into his eyes.

The boy winced and hung his head as he said slowly:

“They called upon him to surrender, but—”

The lad raised his head, and tossing it back, his eyes flashed as he cried in a different tone:

“I can’t help being proud of him—he was so full of pluck, sis. He wouldn’t surrender, but made a bold leap out of the window, and made a run for it; but that beast Bray gave the order, and they shot him down.”

“Shot him down!”

“Yes; but he’s not dead, sis—only wounded; but—”

“But what? Why do you keep anything from me now?” cried Claire piteously.

“It’s court-martial, and—it’s court-martial for striking your officer, Claire, and he knows it; and, poor fellow, in a desperate fit, so as to get into the hands of the magistrates instead of the officers, to be condemned to death, he—he—Claire, I can’t speak if you look at me in that wild way.”

“Go on!” she said hoarsely.

“He said—that it was not father—who killed Lady Teigne—but it was he.”

Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.

Morton Bears the News Further.

“Do all you can to comfort them, Mrs Barclay, please,” said Morton, as he left the house. “It’s all so shocking, I don’t know what to say or do.”

“You’ve done quite right in coming here, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, whose eyes were red with weeping.

“I’m afraid I’ve done more harm than good,” said Morton dolefully. “Poor Claire, she’s half crazy with what she has to bear.”

“You told her, then, about your brother Fred?” said Mrs Barclay, in a whisper.

The lad nodded.

“It was quite right; she would have heard of it, and it was better it should come from you, my dear. Are you—are you going to see your poor father in prison?”

“Yes,” said Morton firmly. “I’ve got an order to see him, and I’m going at once.”

He turned round sharply, for he had received a hearty clap on the shoulder, and found that Barclay had approached him unperceived; and he now took the young fellow’s hand and shook it warmly.

“Good lad!” he exclaimed. “That’s brave. Go and see him; and if you like you may tell him that Mr Linnell and I have got the best lawyer in London to defend him.”

“You have, Mr Barclay?”

“Yes; we have. There, don’t stare at me like that. Your father once did me a good turn; and do you suppose a money-lender has no bowels? You tell him—no, don’t tell him. He is in a queer, obstinate way just now, and you’ve got your work cut out to tell him about your brother’s trouble. That’s enough for one day, but you may give him a bit of comfort about your sisters. You can tell him that my stupid, obstinate old wife has got ’em in hand, and that as long as there’s a roof over Mrs Barclay’s head, and anything to eat, Miss Denville will share them. No, no; don’t shake hands with me. I’ve nothing to do with it. It’s all her doing.”

Morton could not speak, but gripped the money-lender’s hand tightly before turning to Mrs Barclay. He held out his hand and took hers, his lips trembling as he gazed in the plump, motherly face. Then, with something like a sob of a very unmanly nature, he threw his arms round her and kissed her twice.

“God bless you!” he cried; and he turned and ran out of the room.

Barclay’s face puckered up as his wife sank down in a chair sobbing, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and rocking herself to and fro, but only to start up in alarm as Barclay dashed to the fireplace, and caught up the poker, before running towards the door.