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The Master of the Ceremonies
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“Silence, May!” she cried.
“Oh, don’t!” said May, wresting herself free, and stamping her foot like a fretful, angry child. “And if you’ve come here to do nothing but scold me and find fault, you’d better go.”
“May – May! Listen to me.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll go up to my own room and cry my eyes out. You don’t know; you can’t imagine what a little wretch he is. I wish you were married to him instead of me.”
“May!”
“I won’t listen,” cried the foolish little woman, stopping her ears. “You bully me for caring for Sir Harry Payne, who is all that is tender and loving; and I’m tied to that hateful little wretch for life, and he makes my very existence a curse.”
“May, will you listen?”
“I can see you are scolding me, but I can’t hear a word you say, and I won’t listen. Oh, I do wish you were married to him instead of me.”
“I wish to heaven I were!” cried Claire solemnly.
“What?” cried May, the stopping of whose ears seemed now to be very ineffective. “You wish you were married to the little mean-spirited, insignificant wretch?”
“Yes,” said Claire excitedly, “for then you would be free.”
“What do you mean by that, Claire?”
“Did you not tell me that Louis Gravani was dead?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“Why did you tell me that?”
“Because he went to Rome or Florence – I am not sure which – and caught a fever and died.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, dear, he never wrote and told me he was dead, of course,” said May with a little laugh, “but he told me he had caught the fever, and he never wrote to me any more, so, of course, he died.”
“And, without knowing for certain, you married Frank Burnett?”
“Don’t talk in that way, dear. It’s just like the actress at Drury Lane, where Frank took me. You would make a fortune on the stage. What do you mean, looking at me so tragically?”
“May, prepare yourself for terrible news.”
“Oh, Claire! Is poor, dear papa dead?”
“May, Louis Gravani is alive.”
“Alive? Oh, I am so glad!” she cried, clapping her hands. “Poor, dear little Louis! How he did love me! Then he isn’t dead, after all, and I’m his wife, and not Frank’s. Oh, what fun!”
Claire caught at the back of a chair, and stood gazing wildly at her sister, utterly stunned by her childish unthinking manner.
“May – May!” she cried bitterly; “your sin is finding you out.”
“Sin? How absurd you are! Why, what sin have I committed?”
“That clandestine marriage, May.”
“Now what nonsense, dear. It wasn’t my fault, as I told you before. You don’t know what love is. I do, and I loved poor, dear little Louis. I couldn’t help it, and he made me marry him.”
“Oh, May, May!”
“I tell you, I was obliged to marry him. One can’t do as one likes, when one loves. You’ll know that some day. But, I am glad.”
“May!” cried Claire reproachfully.
“So I am. Why, he’ll come and fetch me away from my miserable tyrant, and we can have little pet blossom away from Fisherman Dick’s, and take a cottage somewhere, and then I can sing and play to baby, while dear old Louis reads the Italian poets to me, and goes on with his painting.”
A piteous sigh escaped from Claire Denville’s lips as she fervently breathed in wild appeal:
“My God, help me!” And then – “It is too hard – too hard. What shall I do?”
A change came over the scene. The picture May Burnett had painted dissolved in the thin air, and she turned quickly upon her sister.
“How do you know this, Claire? Has Louis written to you?”
“No. He is here.”
“Here! In Saltinville?”
“Yes, here in Saltinville. He would have been at this house, only I prevailed upon him to stay till I had seen you – to prepare you.”
“Oh, Claire! Does he know I am married?”
“No; he believes you have been as faithful to him as he to you.”
“Oh!”
It was a wild cry; and a look of frightened horror came over the pretty baby face, as its owner caught Claire round the waist, and clung to her.
“Claire, Claire!” she cried. “Save me! What shall I do? Louis is an Italian, and he is all love and passion and jealousy. I dare not see him. He would kill me, if he knew. What shall I do? What can I do? Oh, this is terrible, Claire!” she cried. “Claire!” and she shook her sister passionately. “Why don’t you speak? What shall I do?”
Claire remained silent.
“Why don’t you speak, I say?” cried May with childish petulance.
“I am praying for help and guidance, sister, for I do not know.”
May let herself sink down upon the carpet with her hands clasped, as she gazed straight at her sister, looking to her for advice and help, while Claire remained with her eyes fixed, deeply pondering upon their terrible position.
“I can only think of one thing,” she said at last. “I must see Louis Gravani, and tell him all.”
Другие электронные книги автора George Fenn
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