The Master of the Ceremonies

“Yes,” stammered Claire; “he knew.”

“I ought to have spoken, but I dared not. I was younger then and so poor. I was obliged to go back to my Italia to try if I could not win fame there and fortune for my little flower of beauty – my May-bud. Claire – dear sister – no, no, you frown – you must forgive us, for we were so young, and we loved so much. Ah, you are not well. I frighten you. I came here so sudden. But my news is so good. I have succeeded so in my art, and I have possessions too. My poor father is dead. I am not a rich man – what you English call rich; but I have enough, and you will forgive me. But, May? She is not here?”

“No, no,” said Claire, with her lips turning ashy pale.

“She is not far away?”

“Not far away,” said Claire, “but Louis, Monsieur Gravani – ”

“No, no, not Monsieur – not Signore. I am Louis, your fratello, your brother. Now tell me. My heart beats to be with her once again. She is not changed, I know. The same little angel face that Raffaello painted, and that I have had ever in my heart.”

“No, she is not changed,” sighed Claire.

“No, she could not change. La mia fiorella!”

“But Louis – ”

“Yes? What? Why do you look at me so? She is ill!”

He raised his voice to a wild cry, and his handsome face grew convulsed as he seized Claire’s hands.

“No, no,” she cried. “No, no; she is quite well.”

“Then take me to her now. I can wait no longer. I must see her now.”

“No, no, you cannot. It is impossible,” cried Claire.

“Then there is something that you do not tell me. Speak; you are killing me.”

“She – she – my poor sister – she thought – she heard – she had news, Louis – that you were dead.”

“Dead? – I? – dead? Oh, my poor little flower!” he cried, with a ring of tender pity in his voice, but changing to a fierce burst of anger on the instant. “But who told her? Who sent her those lies?”

“I don’t know – I never knew. But she grieved for you, Louis – because you were dead.”

“My little tender flower! Oh! oh! it is too cruel. But I am here – here, waiting to press her to my heart once more. You shall take me to her now.”

“It would be impossible. I could not. It would kill her. No, you must wait till to-morrow.”

“No, no; I could not wait,” he cried excitedly. “I love her. I am here. I must see her now.”

Claire felt beside herself, and her hands dropped helplessly to her side, as if she despaired of averting the catastrophe that was to come. What was she to do? – say something to deceive this man and keep him waiting until she had seen and prepared her sister?

The task was hateful to her in the extreme; and it seemed as if her life was to be made up of subterfuges and concealments, all of which caused reflections upon her.

“You love May still?” she said at last.

“Love her still!” he cried, with all the impassioned manner of a young Italian. “I tell you it has been desolation to be separated from her all this time; but it was our hard fate, and I have suffered, as she has, poor child. But the thought of seeing her again has comforted me, and I have waited, oh, so patiently, till I could come to her again. Now, tell me, good sister, I must see her – quick – at once.”

“No,” cried Claire, “it is impossible. You must wait.”

“Wait? – I? – wait?”

“Yes,” said Claire desperately; and there was so much firmness and decision in her tone that the weak, impassioned young Italian was mastered, and yielded to her will.

“Not long, sweet sister, not for long?”

“No, not for long,” said Claire excitedly. “It is for May’s sake. You would not wish to harm her?”

“I? Harm her? Heaven! no. I would die for her,” cried the young man enthusiastically. “You little think how we love.”

“Then wait till I have seen, and broken the news to her.”

“Broken the news, when my arms are throbbing to embrace her once more?”

“Go to where you are staying, and wait patiently till you hear from me or from May, arranging for an interview.”

“Go? – and wait?”

“Yes,” cried Claire; “for May’s sake.”

“I? Go and wait!” sighed the young man. “Well, it is for her. But the old father? Let me stay and embrace him, and tell him how rich I am, and of my joy. He was always kind to me, even when I was so poor.”

“Impossible!” cried Claire, trembling for fear that her father should return.

“Impossible? Well, I will go. Addio – addio. I shall be at the hotel. You will hasten to her, sweet sister, and tell her my heart has been always filled with her sweet image; that her dear face is in a dozen pictures that I have painted in Rome. You will tell her this?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Claire desperately. “I will go and tell her you are here.”

“Addio, cara mia!” he said, as he bent over and tenderly kissed her hands, and then her cheek. “Addio, sweet sister, I am dying till I once more hold her in these arms.”

Claire led him to the door, as if she were in a dream; and, as she listened to his departing steps, her hands involuntarily clasped her throbbing head, and Isaac confided to his fellow-servants the information that there were strange goings-on in that house, and that when he liked to speak – well, they would see.

“What shall I do?”

Volume Two – Chapter Thirty One.

Claire Takes Steps: so does May

“What shall I do?”

The low wild cry of agony that escaped from Claire Denville’s breast was heard by none, as she stood motionless, listening to Louis Gravani’s steps till they died away.

Then, trembling violently in an agony of terror and despair, she rushed up to her bedroom, and threw herself upon her knees, with her hands still clasping her temples.

What should she do? To whom could she go for help and counsel? Mrs Barclay? Impossible! Cora Dean! No, no: she could not tell her! Her father? She shivered at the thought. It would nearly kill him. He believed so in poor, weak, childish May. She could not – she dared not tell him.

If she had only gone to him at once and shared her secret with him when May had confessed her marriage, and told her about the little child, how easy all this would have been now!