The Master of the Ceremonies Part 103

"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. Hus.h.!.+"

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 n.o.bleman, 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 pa.s.sed, 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. Hus.h.!.+ 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 grat.i.tude 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 X.

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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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.