The Master of the Ceremonies Part 131

"No, no--old father--take care--Clairy here."

He seemed to doze for a few minutes, and Denville rose to go and ask the surgeon if anything could be done.

"Nothing but make his end as peaceful as you can. Ah, my lad, you here?"

"Yes," said Morton. "How is he?"

"Alive," said the surgeon bluntly; and he turned away.

Fred Denville seemed to revive as soon as he was left alone with his sister; and, looking at her fixedly, he seemed to be struggling to make out whose was the face that bent over him.

"Claire--little sister," he said at last, with a smile of rest and content. "Clairy--Richard Linnell? Tell me."

"Oh, Fred, Fred, hush!" she whispered.

"No, no! Tell me. I can see you clearly now. It would make me happier. I'm going, dear. A fine, true-hearted fellow; and he loves you. Don't let yours be a wrecked life too."

"Fred! dear Fred!"

"Let it all be cleared up now--you two. You do love him, sis?"

"Fred! dear Fred!" she sobbed; "with all my heart."

"Ah!" he said softly, with a sigh of satisfaction. "Ask him to come here. No; bring the old man back--and Morton. Don't cry, my little one; it's--it's nothing now, only the long watch ended, and the time for rest."

In another hour he had fallen asleep as calmly as a weary child--sister, father, and brother at his side; and it seemed but a few hours later to Morton Denville that he was marching behind the bearers with the funeral march ringing in his ears, and the m.u.f.fled drums awaking echoes in his heart--a heart that throbbed painfully as the farewell volley was fired across the grave.

For Fred Denville's sin against his officers was forgiven, and Colonel Lascelles was one of the first to follow him to the grave.

Volume Three, Chapter XXVIII.

THE EVE OF THE FINISH.

"A letter, Claire, so painful that I shrank from reading it to you, only that I have no secrets from my promised wife."

"Does it give you pain?" said Claire, as she looked up in Richard Linnell's face, where they sat in the half-light of evening, with the sea spread before them--placid and serene as their life had been during the past few weeks.

"Bitter pain," he said sadly, as he gazed at the saddened face, set off by the simple black in which she was clothed.

"Then why not let me share it? Is pain so new a thing to me?"

"So old that I would spare you more; and yet you ought to know my family cares, as I have known yours."

"May I read?" said Claire softly, as she laid her thin white hand upon the letter.

He resigned it to her without a word; but as she opened the folds:

"Yes; read it," he said. "It concerns you as much as it does me, and you shall be the judge as to whether the secret shall be kept."

Claire looked up at him wonderingly, and then read the letter aloud.

It was a pa.s.sionate appeal, and at the same time a confession and a farewell; and, as Claire read on, she grew the more confused and wondering.

For the letter was addressed to Richard Linnell, asking his forgiveness for the many ways in which the writer, in her tender love and earnest desire for his happiness, had stood between him and Claire, ready to spread reports against her fame, and contrive that Linnell should hear them, since the writer had never thoroughly known Claire Denville's heart, but had judged her from the standpoint of her sister. It had been agony to the writer to see Linnell's devotion to a woman whom she believed to be unworthy of his love; and as his father's life had been wrecked by a woman's deceit, the writer had sworn to leave no stone unturned to save the son.

At times the letter grew sadly incoherent, and the tears with which it had been blotted showed its truthfulness, as the writer prayed Richard's forgiveness for fighting against his love and giving him such cruel pain.

"Colonel Mellersh will explain all to you," the letter went on, "for he has known everything. It was he who saved me from further degradation, and found the money to buy this business, where I thought to live out my remaining span of life unknown, and only soothed by seeing you at times--you whom I loved so dearly and so well."

Claire looked up from the letter wonderingly, but Linnell bade her read on.

"Colonel Mellersh fought hard against my wishes at first, but he yielded at last out of pity. I promised him that I would never make myself known--never approach your father's home--and I have kept my word.

Mellersh has absolved me now that I am leaving here for ever, and I go asking your forgiveness as your wretched mother, and begging you to ask for that of Claire Denville, the sweet, true, faithful woman whom you will soon, I hope, make your wife.

"Lastly, I pray and charge you not to break the simple, calm happiness of your father's life by letting him know that his unhappy wife has for years been living so near at hand."

"But, Richard," cried Claire, "I always thought that--that she was dead."

"He told me so," replied Linnell sadly. "She was dead to him. There, you have read all. It was right that you should know. Colonel Mellersh has told me the rest."

Linnell crumpled up the letter, and then smoothed it out, and folded and placed it in his breast.

"It is right," he said again, "that you should know the truth. Mellersh is my father's oldest friend. They were youths together. When the terrible shock came upon my father that he was alone, and that his wife had fled with a man whom he had made his companion after Mellersh had gone upon foreign service, his whole life was changed, and he became the quiet, subdued recluse you see."

Linnell paused for a few minutes, and then went on:

"Mellersh had idolised my mother when she was a bright fashion-loving girl; but he accepted his fate when she gave the preference to my father. When he came home from India and found what had happened, and that this wretch had cast her off, he shot the betrayer of my father's name, and then sought out and rescued my mother, placing her as you have read, at her desire, here."

"But, Richard dear, I am so dull and foolish--I can only think of one person that this could possibly have been; and it could not be--"

"Miss Clode? Yes, that was the name she took. My mother, Claire. What do you say to me now?"

Claire rose from her seat gently, and laid her hand upon her arm.

"We must keep her secret, Richard," she said; "but let us go to her together now."

"Then you forgive her the injury she did you?"

"It was out of love for you; and she did not know me then. Let us go."

"Impossible," he said, taking her in his arms. "She has left here for ever. Some day we may see her, but the proposal is to come from her."

They did not hear the door open as they stood clasped in each other's arms, nor hear it softly closed, nor the whispers on the landing, as one of the visitors half sobbed:

"Ain't it lovely, Jo-si-ah? Did you see 'em? If it wasn't rude and wrong, I could stand and watch 'em for hours. It do put one in mind of the days when--"

"Hold your tongue, you stupid old woman," was the gruff reply. "It's quite disgusting. A woman at your time of life wanting to watch a pair of young people there, and no candles lit."

"Hush! Don't talk so loud, or they'll hear us; and now, Jo-si-ah, as it's in my mind, I may as well say it to you at once."