The Master of the Ceremonies Part 117

"Hush! Say no more, my boy. You do not know," cried the old man angrily. "You do not know."

"It is you who do not know, father. You have not heard that he has been shot down."

"Fred--my son--shot?"

"Yes, while attempting to escape from arrest, father. He is dangerously wounded. Forgive me for telling you at such a time, but you seem so hard upon him."

"Hard, my boy? You do not know."

"I know he is dangerously wounded, and that he is your son."

"My G.o.d!" muttered Denville, with his lip quivering--"a judgment--a judgment upon him for his crime."

"And that in his misery and pain he raised his voice bravely to try and save you, father, by charging himself with the murder of Lady Teigne."

"What?" cried the old man excitedly. "Fred--my son--charged himself with this crime?"

"Yes; he boldly avowed himself as the murderer."

"Where--where is he?" cried Denville excitedly.

"In the infirmary; weak with his wound. Father, you will forgive the past, and try to be friends with him when--when you meet again."

The Master of the Ceremonies looked up sadly in his son's face and bowed his head slowly.

"Yes," he said sadly; "I will try--when we meet again. But tell me, my boy," he cried agitatedly; "they do not believe what he says--this--this charge against himself?"

"No; they look upon it as what it is--a brave piece of self-denial to save his father from this terrible position. Oh, father! you did not think he could be so staunch and true."

"They don't believe it," muttered Denville. "No; they would not. It does not alter the situation in the least. I shall suffer, and he will be set free."

"You shall not suffer, father," cried Morton impetuously. "Surely there is justice to be had in England. No, I will not have you give way in this weak, imbecile manner. There: no more now; I must go, and I shall consult with your friends."

"No; I forbid it," cried the old man sternly. "You will not be disobedient to me now that I am helpless, Morton, my son. You cannot see it all as I see it."

"No, father; I hope I see it more clearly."

"Rash boy! you are blind, while it is my eyes that are opened. Morton, one of us must die for this crime. I tell you I could not live, knowing that I did so at the expense of your brother who had gone, young in years and unrepentant, to his account."

"Unrepentant, father?"

"Hush, hush, my boy! No more. I can bear no more."

"Time, sir," said the voice of the gaoler, and Morton went sadly back to join his sisters.

Volume Three, Chapter XX.

UNDER PRESSURE.

"Father, I am nearly mad with grief and horror. I come to you for help--for comfort. What shall I do?" cried Claire, sinking upon her knees before him on her next visit to the prison.

"What comfort can I give you, child?"

"Oh, father, dear father, were not our sufferings enough that this other trouble should come upon us? Fred--"

"Yes, tell me of him," cried the old man excitedly. "Is he very bad?"

"Dangerously wounded, father. And this story of his! They believe it, father; what shall I do?"

"Do, my child?"

"They will take him and punish him for the crime. I fear they will, for he persists that it was he."

"And you would save him and let me die," said the old man bitterly.

"No, no. Don't, pray don't, speak like that, father. Think of what I must feel. I'd lay down my life to save you both, but it seems so horrible that my brother should die for that of which he is innocent."

The old man wrested himself from her grasp, and paced the cell like some caged wild creature, seeking to be free.

"I cannot bear it," he exclaimed. "Heaven help me for a wretched weak man. Why has this complication come to tempt me? Claire, I would have died--without a murmur, without a word, but this dangling before me the means of escape is too much. Yesterday, I did not fear death. To-day, I am a coward. I see before me the hideous beam, the noosed rope, the executioner, and the hooting crowd, hungry to see me strangled to death, and I fear it, I tell you, for the hope of life has begun to burn strongly again now that Fred has spoken as he has."

"Father!"

"Yes; you shrink from me, but you do not know. Claire, I speak to you as I could speak to none else, for you have known so much from the beginning. You know how I have suffered."

"Yes, yes," she said mournfully.

"You know how I have shrunk and writhed in spirit to see you loathe me as you have, and look upon me as something unutterably base and vile.

Have I not suffered a very martyrdom?"

"Yes, father, yes," sighed Claire.

"And heaven knows I would not have spoken. I would have gone boldly to the scaffold, and died, a sacrifice for another's crime. But now that he has confessed--now that he denounces himself, and I see life before me once again, the desire to live comes so strongly to this poor weak creature that my lips seem to be unsealed, and I must--I must have your love, Claire, as of old."

"Father!" cried Claire with a horrified look, as if she doubted his reason.

"Yes, you are startled; you wonder at me, but, Claire, my child, had I gone to the gallows it would have been as a martyr, as a father dying for his son's crime. Claire, my child, I am an innocent man."

"Father!"

"Yes," he cried, "innocent. You never had cause to shrink from me; and while a thousand times you wrung my heart, I said to myself, 'You must bear it. You cannot retain her love and win your safety by accusing your son.'"

"Father, you rave," cried Claire. "This hope of escape has made you grasp at poor Fred's weak self-accusation. You would save yourself at the expense of the life of your own child."

"Did I accuse him of the murder, Claire?"

"No, not till now; and oh, father, it is monstrous."

"Did he not accuse himself, stung by conscience after seeing me here?"