The Master of the Ceremonies

“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.