Читать книгу: «The Master of the Ceremonies», страница 33

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Two.
Nature’s Temptation

Claire Denville sat back in her chair utterly exhausted, and feeling as if her brain was giving way. The news from the prison was as hopeless as ever. Fred lay lingering at the barrack infirmary; and though May was better she was querulous, and in that terribly weak state when life seems to be a burden and thought a weariness and care.

She was asleep now, and Claire had just risen softly so as not to awaken her, and make her resume her complaints and questions as to how soon her father would come back and forgive her, and when her husband would return and take her home, for she was weary of lying there.

Unreasoning in her weakness, she had that afternoon been bitterly reproaching Claire for not fetching her child, that she might nurse and play with it – at a time when she could hardly hold up her arm – and when she had been firmly but kindly refused she had burst into a torrent of feeble, querulous reproaches, which had been maddening to Claire in her excited, overstrained state.

The door opened, and Mrs Barclay’s beaming countenance appeared, and she stood there beckoning with her fat finger.

“Let’s stand outside and talk,” she whispered. “That’s right: close the door. Now then, my dear, I’ll go in and sit with your sister there, for you’re getting overdone; and I tell you what, it’s a fine soft evening, you put on your bonnet and shawl and go and have a walk. I don’t like your going alone, but just take one sharp walk as far as the pier and back, two or three times. It’ll do you good.”

“Have you any news, Mrs Barclay?” said Claire, ignoring the wish expressed.

“Not yet, my dear, but everybody’s working for you. Now, do go.”

Claire hesitated, and then in obedience to the reiterated wish she mechanically did as she was bid, and went out into the cool soft night, the beating of the waves sounding loudly on the shore, while as they broke a glow as of fire ran along their crests, flashing and sparkling with soft radiance along the shore.

But Claire saw nothing, heard nothing – neither the figure that came quickly after her as she left the house, nor the sound of steps.

For all was one weary confused trouble in her brain, and everything seemed forced and unnatural, as if it were the mingling of some dream.

Mrs Barclay had bidden her walk as far as the pier, and in all obedience she had done as she was told, reaching the pier entrance; and then, attracted she knew not how or why by the darkness and silence, she turned on to the wooden edifice, and began to walk swiftly along the planked floor.

It was very dark that night, only at the end there was a single light that shone brightly, and in her confused state this seemed to be the star of hope leading her on.

She had not had the slightest intention of going there, but in a rapt dreamy way she walked on and on, the vacant place seeming strange. The last time she had stood on the pier it had been thronged with well-dressed promenaders, but that was months – it seemed years – ago, while endless horrors had taken place since then.

How calm – and still it all was where she walked, while below among the piles the sea softly ebbed and flowed and throbbed, seeming full of whisperings and voices that were hushed lest she should hear the words they said.

She walked on and still on, and it occurred to her once that it was along here that beautiful Cora Dean’s ponies had dashed, taking her over the end into the sea, from which Richard Linnell, so brave and honest, had saved her. She had often heard how the crowd cheered him – Richard Linnell. Cora loved him and was jealous of her, and yet she had no cause to be, for the events of the terrible night – the night of the ghastly serenade – killed that for ever.

Why did she think of all this now? She could not tell. It came. She felt that she was not answerable for her thoughts – hardly for herself, as she turned and looked back at the faint lights twinkling upon the Parade. It seemed as if she were saying good-bye to the town, where, in spite of the early struggles with poverty, there had been so much happiness, as in her young love dream she had felt that Richard Linnell cared for her.

Yes; it was like saying good-bye to it with all its weary troubles and bitter cares.

She walked on and on, right to the end, but the light did not shed its beams upon her now. It was no longer a star of hope. It sent its light far out to sea, but she was below it in the shade, and hope was forgotten as she leaned over the rail at the end, listening to the mysterious whisperings of the water in amongst the piles, and looking down into the transparent darkness all lit up with tiny lambent points which were ever going and coming. Now and then there would be a pale bluish-golden flash of light, and then quite a ribbon of dots and flashes, as some fish sped through the sea, but it only died out, leaving the soft transparency lit up with the faint dots and specks that were ever moving.

To her right, though, there was a cable, curving down into the sea, and rising far out, after nearly touching the sands, to ascend to the deck of a large smack aground on the bank. That rope was one mass of lambent light, a huge chain of pallid gold that glowed all round; and as Claire Denville gazed there was a rift in the clouds overhead, and from far above the rays from a cluster of stars were reflected like a patch of diamonds in the sea, and she turned shudderingly away to gaze down once more at the transparent darkness, where the moving specks seemed to have a peculiar fascination.

How the softly flowing and ebbing waves whispered below there amid the piles and down under the platform where her brother used to fish! How soothing and restful it all was to her aching head! The troubles that had been maddening her seemed to float away, and everything was calm and cool. As she stood thinking there a dreamy sensation came over her, such as comes to those who have awakened after the crisis of a fever. Hers had been a fever of the brain, a mental fever; and now all seemed so calm and still that she heaved a sigh, half sob, and the troubles died away in the past.

The transparent water into which she gazed, with its flashes of luminous splendour, seemed to grow more and more mysterious and strange. It was so like oblivion that it began to tempt her to trust herself to it and rest: for she was so weary! Trouble after trouble – the long series of cares – had been so terrible a strain that she felt that she could bear no more, and that the sea offered her forgetfulness and rest.

She did not know why she came there: it was not against her will – it was not with her will. Her mind seemed to be stunned, and it was as if her wearied body had drawn her there.

She leaned over the rail, with the cool, soft, refreshing air bathing her burning forehead, and watched one brilliant point of light – soft and lambent – that was near the surface, and then moved slowly down lower and lower into the dark depths that seemed beyond fathoming; and, as she watched it, the fancy came upon her that these points of light might be lives like hers, wearied out and now resting and gliding here and there in the soft transparent darkness at her feet.

Father – brother – sister – Richard Linnell – her past cares – all appeared distant and strange, and she had no more control over herself than has one in a dream. There was that weariness of spirit – of a spirit that had been whipped and spurred until jaded beyond endurance – that weariness that asked for rest – rest at whatever cost; and whispered that rest could only come in the great sleep – the last.

It did not seem like death, to step from the end of the pier into the dark water. There was nothing horrible therein. On the contrary, it wooed and beckoned her to its breast, offering utter oblivion when, in her more lucid moments, she felt she must go mad.

As if guided by instinct more than her own will, she turned at last from the rail and took a few steps in the darkness towards the side where the damp salt-soaked flight of steps led to the platform below – the rough landing-stage beneath where she had been standing.

Here, as she stood close to the edge with the black piles looming up around, she fancied they were the whisperers as the water heaved and plashed, and rippled and fell. There was no rail here between her and the rest that seemed to ask her to sink down into its arms, now that she was so weary, and unconsciously she was standing where her brother had stood and listened many months ago at the footsteps overhead, as he enjoyed his stolen pleasure in the middle of the night.

But there was no heavy step now – no voice to break the curious spell that was upon her, drawing her away from life, and bidding her sleep.

She was not afraid; she was not excited. Everything seemed to her dull and dreamy and restful, as she stood on the very verge of the open platform, with the water now only a few inches from her feet, leaning more and more over, till the slightest further movement would have overbalanced her, and she would have fallen in, to sink without a cry.

She hardly started as a firm hand gripped her arm, and she was drawn sharply back, to be held tightly by him who had followed her below, watching her every action and standing close behind her in the darkness with outstretched hands.

“Miss Denville – Claire – for heaven’s sake, what does this mean?”

She did not struggle, but turned round slowly, and looked in the dimly seen face.

“Richard Linnell!” she said, as if wondering at his presence.

“Yes, Richard Linnell,” he cried, panting with emotion. “Claire, my love, has it come to this?”

She did not shrink from him as he drew her closely to his side, and his arm clasped her waist, but gazed up at him in the same half-wondering way.

“Why are you here?” he said hoarsely. “Surely you were not thinking – oh, it is impossible.”

Still she did not answer, but in a slow, dull way extricated herself from his grasp, and pressed her hands over her face, covering her eyes for a few moments till she felt his touch as he laid his hand upon her arm.

“Claire,” he whispered, “you do not speak to me. Why do you not say something to drive away these horrible thoughts. You here – at this hour – alone? Is it my fate to be always misunderstanding you?”

She shuddered slightly, as if his words were reviving memories of other meetings, and now she spoke.

“I don’t know why I am here,” she said in a dazed, helpless way. “I have had so much trouble. I was tired!”

“Trouble!” he whispered. “Claire dearest, if you only knew how I loved you. Let me share the trouble – help you through everything.”

“Hush! Don’t speak to me like that, Richard Linnell,” she said slowly, as if she had to think deeply before she uttered a word. “I cannot talk to you now. My head!”

She paused and gazed at him helplessly, laying her hand upon her brow.

“You ought not to have been alone,” he said, earnestly. “But tell me – you were not thinking of that – ”

He pointed with a shudder to the sea that whispered and hissed below where they stood.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, still in the same dazed way. “I came, and it seemed to draw me towards it. I am so weary – so tired out.”

He caught her in his arms, and held her head down upon his shoulder, as he whispered in a voice deep with emotion:

“Weary, my poor girl, weary indeed. Now rest there, and, heaven helping me, half your trouble shall pass away. For I love you, Claire, love you with all my heart, and I too have suffered more than I can tell.”

She made no resistance to his embrace, but sighed deeply, as if he was giving her the support she needed in her time of weakness; but his heart sank within him as he felt how helpless and dazed she was. She yielded to him, but it was not the yielding of one who loved, neither was there a suggestion of caress in her words. He knew that she was half distraught with the suffering that had fallen to her lot; and holding her more tightly for a moment, he pressed his lips once reverently on her forehead, and then drew her arm through his.

“I will take you back,” he said.

She looked up at him, and a pang shot through his breast as he realised how weak she had become.

“Yes,” she said at last, “you will take me back.”

“And, Claire, are the clouds between us to pass away for ever now?” he whispered, as he held her hand.

“Clouds?” she said, as she seemed to comprehend him now. “No: they can never pass away. Mr Linnell, I am ill. I hardly know what I say.”

“Then trust me,” he said. “I will take you back.”

“Yes – if you will,” she said vacantly. “I have been so ill. I hardly know – why I am here.”

“But you understand me, Claire?” he said softly.

“Yes: I think I understand you.”

“Then remember this,” he said. “You have shrunk from me, and there has been a terrible estrangement through all your troubles; but, mark this, Claire Denville, I love you. Let me say those simple words again, and let their simplicity and truth bear them home to your heart. I love you, as I always have loved and always shall. You will turn to me, dearest, now.”

“It is impossible,” she said gravely, and she seemed moment by moment to be growing clearer.

“But I love you,” he pleaded.

“And they ask for my love and help,” she said, with a sudden flash back into the full power of her intellect. “My poor suffering father – my sister – my wounded brother. Can you not see that there is a social gulf between us too?”

“No,” he said, drawing her to him, and once more kissing her brow. “I only see the sweet, true woman who has been a martyr – I only see my love.”

She did not speak for a few moments: and then the vacant manner returned somewhat, as she said to him, laying her hand upon his arm:

“I seemed drawn here. I could not help it. That would be too horrible. Take me back.”

He drew her arm once more through his, and led her up the steps and back to the Barclays’ house, where he paused upon the steps.

“Always yours, Claire. I am going to work again in your service. I am yours, and yours alone.”

She shook her head sadly as the door was opened by Mrs Barclay, who shrank back with a smile to let both enter; but Claire glided in, and Richard Linnell remained.

“I am glad,” whispered Mrs Barclay. “Why don’t you come in?”

“Hush!” he whispered. “Poor girl! she is half mad with her misery. Mrs Barclay, you must not let her go out of your sight. Good-night. Good-night.”

He walked rapidly away, and Mrs Barclay followed Claire into the dining-room, where the poor girl was kneeling by a chair and weeping bitterly for the lost love that she felt could never be hers; but as she wept the tears seemed to give rest and lightness to her over-taxed brain, and at last she sank fast asleep like a weary child, her head upon her old friend’s lap, and her breathing coming more regularly and deep than at any time since the night of the murder.

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Three.
A Revelation

“Don’t, pray don’t talk to me, Mrs Barclay,” said Claire piteously. “Let me lie back here and think and rest for a few minutes, and then I must go up to May.”

“No, no, no, my dear; you let poor May alone a bit. She’s getting on right enough, and you want more attention than she does. And don’t think, my dear. Have patience. Things may turn out all right.”

“No,” said Claire, with a sigh. “There is no hope now.”

“Oh, yes, there is!” said Mrs Barclay decisively. “Jo-si-ah says a reprieve may come at any moment, for Lord Carboro is trying might and main, and Mr Richard Linnell – ah, does that touch you?”

“No, no, hush!” cried Claire, in agony. “Don’t mention his name.”

“I shall,” cried Mrs Barclay. “I shall say what I think will do you good, my dear. Mr Richard Linnell has been working night and day, just as he did at the trial. Now he has been getting a petition signed by everyone in Saltinville, and that’s going to win, I think.”

Claire caught her arm and looked at her with dilating eyes.

“Yes, I think that’s going to do some good, and we’ve got to trust in Providence, my dear, and wait.”

“Yes, yes. I do pray fervently for help.”

“And you’ve got to rouse yourself up, my dear, and do something to keep from thinking.”

“I can’t – I can’t, dear Mrs Barclay.”

“Oh, yes, you can, my dear. Not for yourself; I want you to help me.”

“Help you?”

“Yes, my dear; help me.”

“I’ll try,” said Claire sadly.

“That’s my pet; I knew you would.”

She embraced Claire tenderly, and then smoothed her hair, as if proud of her.

“What shall I do?” she said to herself. “Booking? No: jools always please womenfolk. I like ’em myself.”

“What am I to do?” said Claire. “I will try, Mrs Barclay. I must have been a great trouble to you.”

“A great fiddlestick,” cried the plump dame. “What nonsense! Now I’m going to just dust over and put down all the jools we have in the iron chest. Mr Barclay’s securities, and some that he has bought. He always likes me to look over them now and then, and mark off any that have been sold or let out, and so on. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Willingly,” said Claire sadly.

“That’s a dear. Look there on the other side of the way. It’s Mr Linnell again. He’s looking up. Go to the window, and return his bow, my dear.”

“No, no, I could not,” cried Claire excitedly.

“Well, then, my dear, I must,” said Mrs Barclay, suiting the action to the word, and not only bowing, but kissing her plump hands to Linnell again and again. “There he goes,” she exclaimed. “Poor young man! I don’t know whose fault it is, but some one’s wrong; and I don’t like to see two who ought to be helpmeets keeping at a distance for nothing.”

Claire’s brow contracted, but she said no word, while, after diving into a pocket somewhere beneath her voluminous skirts, Mrs Barclay brought out a bunch of bright keys, with one of which she opened a great cabinet in a dark corner of the bric-à-brac filled room.

“Here’s where we keep the jools, my dear,” she said, as she took another key and fitted it in a large iron safe within the cabinet. “My Jo-si-ah says that no housebreakers could open that iron chest if they tried for a week. Now, you help me. Hold your apron and I’ll fill it. Then we’ll lay the cases on the table and look at them, and compare them with the books, and then put ’em away again.”

Claire smiled sadly as the eager little woman plunged her plump arm into the safe and brought out, one after the other, the quaint, old-fashioned morocco cases of every shape and size; and these were duly laid upon the table, on whose cloth a space had been cleared.

Along with these was a canvas bag of the kind used in a bank for sovereigns, and a couple of chamois leather bags of similar size and shape.

“That’s about all,” said Mrs Barclay, bustling about with her eyes beaming and her cheeks showing what an artist would term high lights. “Now we’ll have a good look at ’em, my dear; all grand people of title’s family jewels that they’ve had to sell or pledge through gambling at the tables. Ah, a very nasty sort of trade, my dear, buying and lending on them; but, as Jo-si-ah says, some people will be fools, and if he didn’t make money from them other folks would.”

She placed a chair for Claire, and another for herself; and then, opening a drawer, she took out a ruddy piece of wash-leather, and what seemed to be an ivory tooth-brush that had grown out of knowledge, and a nail-brush in a state of consumption.

“I always give ’em a brush up, my dear, before I put ’em away. Jo-si-ah likes to see ’em kept in good order. He says they look so much more valuable when they’re brought out.”

She opened one faded red case by pressing on the snap, and laid bare a diamond necklet in old-fashioned silver setting, the gems sparkling in the light as they were moved; for they were evidently of considerable value.

“There,” she cried; “those once belonged to a duchess, my dear, but they’re ours now. Jo-si-ah said I might wear ’em if I liked; but they’re too fine for me. They’d look lovely on your soft white neck. Let me try ’em.”

“No, no – pray!” cried Claire in alarm, as she shrank away with such a look of wild horror in her eyes that Mrs Barclay laid the jewels down.

“Why, my pretty!” she said tenderly, “what a fuss to make about nothing.”

“Yes, yes, it was, I know,” said Claire, with a forced laugh. “It was very foolish of me; but – don’t – do that again.”

“No; if you don’t wish it, my dear, of course,” said Mrs Barclay; and she looked across wonderingly at her companion, for she could not comprehend how the sight of those diamonds and the attempt to place them on her neck had recalled the back drawing-room at the house on the Parade, with the hideous old woman sitting up in bed with her jewels about her on the coverlid and on her arms and neck. The sight of diamonds had become hateful to Claire, and she was ready to leave the table, but the thought of seeming strange to Mrs Barclay restrained her.

“Poor old girl! she had to wear paste, as lots of them do when they sell their jewels, my dear. Ah, they’re a beggarly set; when once they take to gambling they don’t seem to be fine ladies any longer. Back you go in the box.”

Snap.

Mrs Barclay had given the diamond necklet a brush and a rub while she was speaking; and then, taking up and opening a book, she handed it to Claire, bidding her look out for the Duchess of Duligne’s diamonds, and make a pencil tick against them.

This done and the morocco case replaced in the safe, another was taken up and opened, displaying a ruby and gold bracelet.

“There, I’ll put that on my wrist,” said Mrs Barclay, suiting the action to the word. “I won’t ask you to have it on, my dear. Some girls would want to, and wouldn’t like ’em taken off again. But you’re different to most people. Look at that now. Jewels always seem best against skin and flesh, but there, my gracious, how fat I am getting! Why it won’t snap round my wrist! Think of that.”

She laughed as merrily as a girl as she held up the glittering gems, and then started, with a loud “Lor’ bless me!”

For just then there was a tremendous double knock at the door; and, jumping up with wonderful activity for one of her size, she trotted across to the window.

“Why, it’s Cora Dean, my dear. No, no: don’t go,” she continued, as Claire rose hastily.

“I do not feel as if I could meet her, Mrs Barclay,” Claire pleaded.

“But she’s nobody, my dear, and she’ll be so hurt if you go, for I’m sure to let out that you were here just now.”

“Miss Dean, ma’am,” said the servant, opening the door; and Claire’s indecision was cut short by Cora going straight to her, taking her hand and kissing her, before bestowing the same salute upon Mrs Barclay.

“I am glad to see you, my dear,” said the latter volubly, for she was nervously afraid that Claire would go, and of the opinion that the best way to set both at their ease was to talk.

“I ought to have been here before,” said Cora, “but my mother has been ill. Don’t think me unkind, Claire Denville.”

She bent over and took Claire’s hand, and met her eyes with a curious wistful look that was full of affection; but, as in some clear gem, such as lay beside them on the table, there was a hidden fire that kept darting forth, and that fire was the vainly-smothered bitter jealousy that was the torment of her life.

“It was very kind of you to come,” said Claire quietly; and there was a coldness in her manner that seemed to make Cora’s jealousy glow more fiercely, for the fire flashed up, and the wistful affectionate look seemed to be burning fast away.

It was only a matter of moments, though, for a change came over Claire. It was as if something within her whispered:

“Why should I be bitter and envious, and hate her for winning a happiness that could never be mine.”

With a quick movement and a low hysterical cry, she threw her arms round Cora’s neck and hid her face in her bosom, sobbing bitterly at first; and then, as Cora held her tightly in her embrace, and soothed and caressed her, the sobs grew less violent, the tears fell more slowly, and at last she raised her face and gazed in her friend’s eyes, offering her lips with a simple child-like motion for the kiss in which they were joined —

“Oh – oh – oh – oh! Don’t you take any notice of me, my dears,” burst forth Mrs Barclay. “It’s only my foolishness, but I couldn’t keep it back. There, there,” she cried in a choking voice, “I’m better now – I’m getting better now. I couldn’t help it though. There!”

She dabbed her eyes with her scented handkerchief, and beaming on both in turns, she gave first one and then the other a hug full of affection.

“It does me good, my dears, to see you both real friends at last; and now let’s be sensible and chat together till I’ve finished these jools, and then we’ll have a nice strong cup of tea.”

Neither Claire nor Cora spoke, but sat with full hearts, and with a feeling of relief stealing over them as their hostess prattled on, opening case after case, and drawing the book to herself so as not to trouble Claire.

“Look at those, my dears; real choice pearls. Ain’t they lovely?” she said as she took out a ring from its tiny box. “They’re small, but they’re as good as good. Pearls always go best on dark people. Now just you try that on, Cora Dean, my dear. No; that finger’s a little too large, and that’s too small. That’s it to a T; just a fit.”

“It is beautiful,” said Cora, admiring the pearls. “Look, Claire.”

“Yes,” said Claire, smiling; “they are very beautiful.”

“Not as you want jools on you, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, “with a face, and rich red mouth, and throat, and hair, like you have. You want no jools to make you handsome as handsome can be.”

“Oh, yes, I do, Mrs Barclay; and I did not know that you had taken to flattery,” cried Cora, laughing.

“’Tain’t flattery, my dear, it’s truth,” said Mrs Barclay; “and I can’t say which is the handsomer – you or Claire Denville there – for you’re both right in your own ways. You neither of you want jools.”

“I do, Mrs Barclay, and I mean to have this ring if it is for sale. How much is it? It’s lovely.”

“It is for sale, my dear,” cried Mrs Barclay; “and you shall have it and pay for it.”

“And the price?”

“The price is that you’re to be a good true friend to Claire Denville there, as long as you live, and,” – a hearty smack on Cora’s Juno-like red lips – “there’s the receipt, my dear.”

“But, Mrs Barclay – ”

“Not another word, my dear,” cried the plump lady. “There’s the little case, and – there!” she continued, taking up a pen and writing, as she muttered, “Half-hoop oriental pearl ring: Countess of Dinster. S-o-l-d. There.”

She looked up, smiling with satisfaction, and busily opened another case.

“But, really, Mrs Barclay,” began Cora, “such an expensive ring.”

“Why, bless your heart, my dear, you don’t think I look upon such a thing as that as expensive. Why, I’ve only to say to my Jo-si-ah I want a set of diamonds, and if they were worth a couple of thousand pounds he’d give ’em to me directly. There, I won’t hear no more. These are nice, ain’t they, my dears? Emeralds – real.”

She held up a glittering green suite.

“Look at the flaws in them. Shows how good they are. Look at these sapphires and diamonds mixed, too. They’re worth a good thousand, they are.”

She spread out the beautiful stones, and Cora’s eyes glistened with pleasure as case after case was opened, for it was a feast for her that she thoroughly enjoyed, while Claire sat looking on listless and sad till the task was nearly done.

“I wouldn’t spend so much time over them, my dears,” said Mrs Barclay, “only I think you like seeing ’em. There, now, there’s only these three lots to open.”

She took a wash-leather bag and opened it, to pour out some rough-looking crystals into her hand, as if it had been grain at a corn-market.

“Rough diamonds, dear,” she said to Cora; and, pouring them back, she retied the bag, and took the other and served it the same. “Seed pearls, those are, and worth more than you’d think.”

This bag was also retied and placed in the safe, nothing being left but the canvas packet.

“Ah!” said Mrs Barclay, “I always mean to get a case made for this lot, every time I see them. They’re not much good, but it would set them off.”

As she spoke she untied the bag, turned it over, and, taking hold of the bottom, shook out on the table a necklet, cross, tiara, and pair of bracelets, which tinkled as they fell on the table.

“You’ll spoil them,” said Cora, taking up the tiara admiringly.

“Spoil them? Not I, my dear. You couldn’t spoil them.”

“But they are very beautiful,” said Cora, taking up the cross by the little ring at the top. “Look, Claire dear. Why, I – ”

Claire turned her eyes upon them slowly, and then her countenance changed, and she uttered a cry:

“Lady Teigne’s diamonds!”