The Master of the Ceremonies Part 119

The wounded man groaned.

"No, no," he said faintly. "You should not be here; I am no fit company for you now."

"Oh, Fred, dear Fred," cried Claire pa.s.sionately, "how could you charge yourself with that dreadful crime?"

"How?" he said faintly. "Because it must have been true. The poor old man saw me there, and found my knife upon the carpet."

"It is impossible," sobbed Claire.

"I thought so once," replied the wounded man, "but I suppose it's true.

I often used to think of the old woman's jewels, and how useful they'd be. It seemed so easy, too, the way up there--eh, Morton?"

"Yes, yes; but don't talk like that. Some scoundrel must have seen me climb up, and have gone there that night."

"Yes," said Fred feebly, "some scoundrel who knew the way, but who, in his drunkenness, did not know what he did, and that scoundrel was I."

"No, no, Fred!" cried Claire.

"If you did it," said Morton quickly, "what became of the diamonds?"

"The diamonds, lad?"

"Yes. Did you have the jewels and sell them?"

"Never a stone," said Fred slowly. "No, it's all like a cloud. It always is like a cloud over my mind when I've been having the cursed drink. It sends me mad."

Claire gazed at him wildly.

"You ought not to be here, Clairy. Take her away, lad. I'm no fit company for her. But tell me--the old man? They have set him free?"

"No, not yet," said Morton sadly.

"But he must be set free at once. Poor, weak old fellow! He has suffered enough. Morton, lad, go to him and try to get him out. Him kill the old woman? He hadn't it in him."

Fred Denville turned so faint that he seemed to be losing his senses, but Claire bathed his face, and he recovered and smiled up at her.

"It's hard work to tell you to go, Clairy dear, but you mustn't stay here. Say one kind word to me, though, my dear; I haven't had much to do with kindness since I left home. I'm sorry I disgraced you all so.

Ask the old man to forgive me, and tell him I should like to shake hands with him once, just once, before it's all over."

"Fred, my dear brother," whispered Claire, pressing his hand to her breast, while Morton held the other.

"Ah!" sighed the wounded man, "that's better. Morton, lad, it will soon be over, and people forget these things in a few days. I'm only in the way. I always have been. You'll get on better when I'm gone."

"Hush, Fred!"

He turned his head to Claire, who was gazing at him with burning eyes that seemed drained of the last tears.

"You always were a good, true girl to me, Clairy," he whispered faintly, "and I want you to think well of me when I'm gone. I did this horrid thing, but I swear I have no recollection of it, and I never reaped a s.h.i.+lling advantage from the theft."

The same feeling animated father and son in this time of peril--the desire to stand well in the eyes of Claire, who seemed to them as the whole world.

"Think the best you can of me, my little girl," he whispered. "It will soon be over, and--there's one comfort--I shall die as a soldier should--do you hear, Morton? No hangman's rope to disgrace us more. I fell under fire, my lad, and I shall laugh at the judges, and prison, and scaffold and all."

"Hus.h.!.+ for heaven's sake, Fred!" cried Morton.

"Yes, I will. It's too much--to talk. I was in a rage with them for shooting me. It was that bully--Bray; but I forgive him, for it saves us all from trouble and disgrace. Morton, lad, don't stop in the regiment. Exchange--do you hear? Exchange, and get them away--Claire and May and the old man--to somewhere else when I'm dead."

"Fred! Brother!" wailed Claire.

He smiled at her, and tried to raise her hand to his cheek.

"Yes, little girl!" he said tenderly. "It's quite right. Cuts the knot--the hangman's knot."

There was a bitter, decisive tone in these last words, but he changed his manner again directly, and spoke gently and tenderly.

"It is no use to hide it, dear sis," he said. "I can't live above a day or two. I know I shall not, and you see it is for the best. It saves the old man, and much of the disgrace to you two. Poor old fellow! I never understood him, Clairy, as I should. Under all that sham and fas.h.i.+onable show he tried hard for us. G.o.d bless him! he's a hero."

"Fred, Fred, you are breaking my heart," wailed Claire.

"No, no, little one," said Fred, a nervous accession of strength enabling him to speak out clearly and firmly now. "You must be strong and brave. You will see afterwards that it was all for the best, and that I am of some good to you all at last. Try and be strong and look at it all as a blessing. Can you bring the old man here? Morton, lad, with my last breath I'll pray that you may grow up as true and brave a fellow. Just think of it, you two--that night. He saw me in the room and escape, and he held his tongue to save me! Do you remember that day, Clairy, when he found me with you and attacked me as he did? I couldn't understand it, then. Ah! it's all plain enough, now. No wonder he hated me."

"Fred, you must not talk," said Morton.

"Not talk, lad?" said Fred with a sad smile. "I've not much more chance. Let me say a few words now."

He lay silent though for a few moments, and his eyes closed as if glad of the rest; but at the end of a short s.p.a.ce he began again in a half-wandering manner.

"Brave old fellow! Not a word. Even when they took him. Wouldn't betray me because I was his own son. Tell Claire to tell him--some one tell him--I know why. It was because I was poor mother's favourite-- poor mother! How fond she was of me! The scapegrace. They always love the black sheep. Claire--fetch Claire."

He uttered this wildly, and she bent over him, trembling.

"I am here, dear Fred."

He stared at her without recognition for a few minutes, and then smiled at her lovingly.

"Only a bad headache, mother," he said. "Better soon. Don't look at me like that. I didn't mean to kill the old woman. I can't remember doing it. What a time it is since I've seen you. But look here, mother.

Mind Claire. That scoundrel Rockley! I know him. Stand at nothing.

Mind poor Claire, and--"

A spasm seemed to shoot through him, and he uttered a faint cry of agony as he knit his brow.

"Did you speak, dear?" he said huskily. "Have I been asleep?"

"I--I think so," faltered Claire.

"Yes, I fell asleep. I was dreaming of the poor mother. Claire dear, it would have killed her to see me here like this. There, there, it's all for the best. I want to sleep. Tell the old man he must come and forgive me before I go. Bring him, Morton, lad. No: you bring him, Claire. It will be pain to you, my child, but it is to help me. He will forgive me--brave, n.o.ble old fellow that he is--if you are standing by."

The door opened, and the military nurse appeared.