The Master of the Ceremonies Part 16

"I know nothing of those things," said Claire coldly.

"Ah, well, all right; but, I say, when's it to be, Claire? Don't fribble away this season. I hear of two good opportunities for you; and--oh, I say, Claire, they do tell me that a certain gentleman said--a certain very high personage--that you were--"

"Shame, sister!" cried Claire, starting up as if she had been stung.

"How can you--how dare you, speak to me like that?"

"Hoity-toity! What's the matter, child?"

"Child!" cried Claire indignantly. "Do you forget that you have always been as a child to me--my chief care ever since our mother died? Oh, May, May, darling, this is not like you. Pray--pray be more guarded in what you say. There, dearest, I am not angry; but this light and frivolous manner distresses me. You are Frank Burnett's honoured wife-- girl yet, I know; but your marriage lifts you at once to a position amongst women, and these light, flippant ways sit so ill upon one like you."

"Oh, pooh! stuff! you silly, particular old frump!" cried May sharply.

"Do you suppose that a married woman is going to be like a weak, prudish girl? There, there, there; I did not come to quarrel, and I won't be scolded. I say, they tell me that handsome Major Rockley is likely to throw himself away on Cora Dean."

"Oh, May, May, my darling!"

"You are a goose not to catch him in your own net."

"Major Rockley?"

"Yes; he is rich and handsome. I wish I'd had him instead of Frank."

"May, dear May!"

"Oh, I know: it's only talk. But, I say, dear, have you heard about old Drelincourt? So shocking! In mourning, too. They say she is mad to marry some one. There, good-bye. Don't crush my bonnet. Oh, of course; yes, I'm going to be as prudish as you, and so careful. Well, what is it?"

"May, you cannot deceive me; you have something on your mind."

"I? Nonsense! Absurd!"

"You were going to tell me something; to ask me to help you, I am sure."

"Well--perhaps--yes," said the little thing, with scarlet face. "But you frightened me out of it. I daren't now. Next time. Good-bye; good-bye; good-bye."

She rattled these last words out hastily, kissed her sister, and hurried, in a strangely excited manner, from the room.

Claire watched the carriage go, and then sank back out of sight in a chair, to clasp her hands upon her knees, and gaze before her with a strangely old look upon her beautiful face.

For there was trouble, not help, to be obtained from the wilful, girlish wife who had so lately left her side.

Volume One, Chapter XIII.

A NIGHT-BIRD TRAPPED.

It was, as Morton Denville said, cold and cheerless at his home, and the proceedings that night endorsed his words, as at half-past ten, after the servants had been dismissed, his father rose to seek his sleepless couch.

Claire rose at the same moment, starting from a silent musing fit, while Morton threw down the book he had been reading in a very ill-used way.

"Good-night, my son," said Denville, holding out his hand, and grasping the lad's with unusual fervour. "Good-night, father."

"And you'll mind and be particular now, my boy. I am sure that at last I can advance your prospects."

"Oh, yes, father, I'll be particular."

"Don't let people see you fishing there again." "No, father, I'll take care. Good-night. Coming Claire?" Claire had put away her needlework, and was standing cold and silent by the table.

"Good-night, Claire, my child," said Denville, with a piteous look and appeal in his tone.

"Good-night, father."

She did not move as the old man took a couple of steps forward and kissed her brow, laying his hands afterwards upon her head and muttering a blessing.

Then, in spite of her efforts, a chill seemed to run through her, and she trembled, while he, noting it, turned away with a look of agony in his countenance that he sought to conceal, and sank down in the nearest chair.

He seemed to be a totally different man, and those who had seen him upon the cliff and pier would not have recognised in him the fashionable fribble, whose task it was to direct the flight of the b.u.t.terflies of the a.s.sembly Room, and preside at every public dance.

"Aren't you going to bed, father?" said Morton, trying to speak carelessly.

"Yes, yes, my son, yes. I only wish to think out my plans a little-- your commission, and other matters."

"I hope he won't be long," muttered Morton as he left the room. "Why, Claire, how white and cold you are! There, hang me if it isn't enough to make a fellow sell himself to that old Lady Drelincourt for the sake of getting money to take care of you. If I'd got plenty, you should go abroad for a change."

Claire kissed him affectionately.

"Hang me if I don't begin to hate May. She doesn't seem like a sister to us. Been here to-day, hasn't she? I heard they'd come back."

"Yes," said Claire with a sigh.

"It was cowardly of them to go off like that, when you were in such trouble. You did not have a single woman come and say a kind word when--_that_ was in the house."

"Don't speak of it, dear," said Claire. "Mrs Barclay came, though."

"Rum old girl! I always feel ready to laugh at her."

"She has a heart of gold."

"Old Barclay has a box of gold, and nice and tightly he keeps it locked up. I say, he'll sell us up some day."

"Morton dear, I can't bear to talk to you to-night; and don't speak like that of May. She has her husband to obey."

"Bless him!" cried Morton musingly. "Good-night, Sis."

He kissed her affectionately, and a faint smile came into Claire's wan face, as it seemed to comfort her in her weary sorrow. Then they parted, and she went to her room, opened the window, and sat with her face among the flowers, watching the sea and thinking of some one whom she had in secret seen pa.s.s by there at night.

That was a dream of the past, she told herself now, for it could never be. Love, for her, was dead; no man could call her wife with such a secret as she held in her breast, and as she thought on, her misery seemed greater than she could bear.

The tide was well up, and the stars glittered in the heaving bosom of the sea as she sat and gazed out; and then all at once her heart seemed to stand still, and then began beating furiously, for a familiar step came slowly along the cobble-paved walk in front of the house, along by the railed edge of the cliff, and then for a moment she could see the tall, dark figure she knew so well, gazing wistfully up at the window.

She knew he loved her; she knew that her heart had gone out to him, though their acquaintance was of the most distant kind. She knew, too, how many obstacles poverty had thrown in the way of both, but some day, she had felt, all would be swept away. Now all that was past. She must never look at him again.