The Master of the Ceremonies

“You don’t know what trouble is. You don’t know what it is to have your tenderest feelings torn. You never knew what it was to suffer as I have. I hate him.”

She could not see Claire’s ghastly face, nor the agonised twitching of the nerves about her lips which her sister was striving to master.

“No one knows what I have had to suffer,” she went on; “and it’s too hard – it’s too hard to bear. No one loves me, no one cares for me. It’s all misery and wretchedness, and – and I wish I was dead.”

“No, no, no, darling,” said Claire, as she drew the sobbing little thing closer to her breast; “don’t say that. I love you dearly, my own sister, and it breaks my heart to see you unhappy. But there, there, you are so weary and ill to-night that it makes everything look so black. I suffer too, darling, for your sake – for all our sakes, and now I will not scold you.”

“Scold me?” cried May, in affright.

“No, not one word; only pray to you to be careful of your dear, sweet little self. My darling, I am so proud of my beautiful little sister. You will not be frivolous again, and give me so much pain?”

“N-no,” sighed May, with her face buried in her sister’s breast.

“Frank – ”

“Don’t – don’t speak of him.”

“Yes, yes; he is your husband, and you must try to win him over to you by gentleness, instead of being a little angry tyrant.”

“Clairy!”

“Yes, but you can be,” said Claire playfully, as she pressed her lips upon the soft, flossy hair. “I can remember how these little hands used to beat at me, and the little tearful eyes flash anger at me in the old times.”

Just then Denville entered the room softly, with a weary, dissatisfied air; but, as he stood in the doorway unnoticed, his whole aspect changed, and the tears stood in his eyes.

“God bless them!” he said fervently; and then, as he saw May raise her head, and look excitedly in her sister’s face, he stepped forward.

“Well, little bird,” he said, bending down to kiss May’s forehead, “back once more in the old nest?”

Claire looked searchingly at him as she rose from her knees; and then she sighed as she saw May fling herself into her father’s arms.

“There, there, I shall make the head ache again,” he said, with a calm, restful smile upon his lips, such as Claire had not seen for months.

“How he loves her!” she thought; and then another idea flashed through her breast. Suppose May knew!

“Claire, my child, is her room ready?”

“Yes; Morton’s room is prepared in case he came back. She will sleep there unless – May, will you come to me?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the little girlish thing, in a quick excited way. “No, no; I’ll be alone. Let me go now – at once.”

Claire fetched and gave her a lighted candle, finding her clinging passionately to her father, looking, as it seemed to the thoughtful woman, like some frightened child.

She kissed him hastily, and seemed to snatch the candle from her sister’s hand.

“Good-night, Claire,” she cried, holding up her face, and clinging tightly to her sister’s arm.

“I am going with you, dear – as I used to in the old times,” said Claire, smiling; and they left the room together.

“Without one word to me,” said Denville, as he stood with clasped hands gazing at the door. “Well, why should I be surprised? What must I be in her sight? Her father! Yes, but a monster without pity – utterly vile.”

He heaved a piteous sigh, as he sank into a chair.

“No,” he said to himself, “I will not influence her in any way. I will not stir. It would be too cruel. But if – if she should lean towards him – who knows? – women have accepted the wealth and position such as he offers. No, I will not stir.”

He sighed again, walked to the drawing-room window to see that the bar was across the shutter; and, this done, he turned hastily and gazed back into the room that had been Lady Teigne’s chamber, and as he did so the dew stood upon his forehead, for he seemed to see the bed with its dragged curtains, the empty casket on the floor, and by it the knife that he had picked up and hidden in his breast.

Yes, there it all was, and Claire standing gazing at him with that horrified look of suspicion in her beautiful face, as the thought came which had placed an icy barrier between them ever since. Yes, there she was, staring at him so wildly, and it was like a horrible nightmare, and —

“Father – are you ill?”

“Claire! Is it you? No, no; nothing the matter. Tired; wearied out. So long and anxious an evening. Good-night!”

She had come in to find him staring back into that room in a half cataleptic state; and the sight of his ghastly face brought all back to her. For a few moments she could not move, but at last, by an effort, she spoke, and he seemed to be snatched back by her voice into life and action.

“Good-night, father,” she said, trembling as she read the agonies of a conscious-stricken soul in his countenance, and she was moving towards the door, when, with an agonised cry, he turned to her.

“Claire, my child, must it be always so?” he cried, as he clasped his hands towards her as if in prayer.

“Father!” she said, in a voice almost inaudible from emotion.

“Claire, my child,” he moaned, as he sank upon his knees before her: “you do not know the burden I have to bear.”

She did what she had not done for months, as she stood trembling before him; laid one hand upon his head, while her lips parted as if to speak, but they only quivered and no words came.

At last, with a sobbing cry, she flung herself upon his neck, and he clasped her in his arms.

“Not to me, father,” she sobbed, “not to me; I am not your judge.”

“No,” he said softly, as he reverently kissed her brow; “you are not my judge.”

His lips parted to speak again, but he shook his head, while a sad smile came into and brightened his countenance.

“The load is lighter, Claire,” he said softly. “No, you are not my judge. If you were you would not condemn me unheard, and I cannot – dare not speak.”

He led her towards the door, and stood watching her as she passed upstairs and out of sight, turning her face to him once before she closed the door.

“The sweet pure angel and good genius of my home,” he said softly, with bent head, and with a calmer, more restful look in his countenance he went slowly to his own room.

All was soon dark and silent in the house so lately busy with the noise and buzz of many guests. Five minutes had not elapsed when the door was softly pushed open, and a slight little figure entered, and crossed to the window.

The noise made was very slight, as the swinging bar across the shutters was lifted and lowered, one of the shutters folded back, the fastening raised, and the window pushed ajar.

The figure stood in the semi-darkness in the attitude of one listening, and then drew back with a peculiar sigh as of one drawing in breath.

A couple of minutes passed, and then there was a scraping, rustling noise outside, the semi-darkness was deepened by a figure in the balcony, the window was drawn outwards, and a man passed in, whispering:

“May – sweet – are you there?”