The Master of the Ceremonies Part 35

"Anne Brown? Aunt Jerdein's servant?" said Claire bitterly. "You trusted her, then, in preference to your own sister."

"No, I didn't, baby. She found me out. And besides, I daren't have told you. How you would have scolded me, you know," continued May.

"Anne was very good to me, and I went and stayed with her mother when baby was born, and then Anne left aunt soon after. Aunt thought, you know, that I'd come down home, and, of course, you all thought I was still at aunt's. Anne Brown managed about the letters."

"Go on," said Claire, who listened as if this were all some horrible fiction that she was forced to hear.

"Then I did come home, and Anne Brown took care of poor baby with her mother, and it was terribly hard work to get money to send them, but somehow I did it; and then you know about Frank Burnett, how poor dear papa brought all that on."

Claire uttered a sigh that was almost a groan, but the pretty little rosebud of a wife went prattling on, in selfish ignorance of the agony she was inflicting, dividing her attention between her dress and the picture of herself that was smiling down at her from the wall.

"I suffered very much all that time, Claire dear, and, whenever I could, I used to go upstairs, lock myself in my room, and put on a little widow's cap I had--a very small one, dear, of white c.r.a.pe--and have a good cry about poor Louis. It was the only mourning I ever could wear for him, and it was nearly always locked up in the bottom drawer; but I used to carry a bit of black c.r.a.pe in my dress pocket, and touch that now and then. It was a little strip put through my wedding ring and tied in a knot. There it is," she said, fishing it out of her dress pocket; "but the strip of c.r.a.pe only looks like a bit of black rag now."

She held out a tiny, plain gold ring for her sister to see, and it looked so small that it seemed as if it had been used sometime when a little girl had been playing at being married with some little boy, or at one of the child weddings that history records.

"Poor Louis!" sighed May. "I was very fond of him. Then, when I was married again, of course I was able to send money up every week easily enough till Frank began to grow so stingy, when I've often had no end of trouble to get it together. But I always have managed somehow. Oh, dear me! This is a wearisome place, this world."

Claire stood gazing down at her, and May went on:

"Then all went smoothly enough till that stupid Anne's mother took a cold or something, and died; then Anne sent me word that she was going to be married, and I must fetch poor baby away."

The sisters' eyes now met as May continued:

"So, as I didn't know anyone else, I went to Mrs Miggles out there on the cliff, and told her how I was situated. She wouldn't help me at first. She said I was to tell you; but when I told her I dared not, and promised her I'd pay her very regularly, she came round, and she went up to London by the coach and fetched baby, and a great expense it was to me, for she had to come back inside. Do open the window, Claire; this room is stifling."

Claire slowly crossed the room and threw open the window and then returned to stand gazing at her sister.

"And your little innocent child is there at that fisherman's hut on the cliff?"

"Yes, dear," said May calmly; and then, for the first time, her face lit up, and she showed some trace of feeling as she exclaimed:

"And, oh, Claire dear, she is such a little darling."

Claire looked at her in a strangely impa.s.sive way. It was as if the story she had heard of her sister's weakness and deception had stunned her, and, instead of looking at her, she gazed right away with wistful eyes at the past troubles culminating in Fred's enlistment, and then that horror, the very thought of which sent a shudder through her frame.

And now this new trouble had come, one that might prove a terrible disgrace, while the future looked so black that she dared not turn her mental gaze in that direction.

"Well," said May, at last, "why don't you speak--though you need not, if you are only going to scold."

"Why have you come to tell me this now--this disgraceful story of deceit and shame?"

"Do you wish to send me back broken-hearted, Claire--crying my eyes out so that Frank is sure to know?"

"I say, why have you come to me, May?"

"Because I am in dreadful trouble at last, and don't know what to do. I daren't communicate with those people or go near the cottage, for I'm sure Frank is watching me and suspecting something."

"You will have to confess everything, May; he loves you and will forgive you."

"But he doesn't love me, and he never would forgive me," cried May excitedly. "You can't think how we quarrel. He's a horribly jealous little monster, and I hate him."

"May!"

"I don't care: I do. Now, look here, Claire, it's of no use for you to boggle about it, because you must help me. If it were to come out it would be social ruin for us all, and I've had quite enough poverty, thank you. I dare not go and see the little thing again, and if some one does not take the Miggleses some money regularly, likely as not they'll turn disagreeable and begin to talk. I shall bring you money, of course, and as some one must go and see that my poor darling is properly cared for, why you must."

"I?"

"Yes, dear, you. The poor little thing shall not be neglected, I'm determined upon that; and as my situation prevents me, why it is your duty, Claire."

"Who knows that this is your little girl, May?" said Claire coldly.

"n.o.body."

"Not even the fisherman's wife?"

"Well, I dare say she thinks something; but those people never say anything so long as you pay them regularly. But there, I dare not stay any longer. There's a guinea, Claire; it's all I have to-day. Take that to Mrs Miggles, and see how the darling is. I must be off. I'll come in to-morrow and hear."

"May, I cannot--I dare not--try to cloak this shameful story."

"But you must, I tell you. Now, don't be so silly. Why, I'd do as much for you."

"I tell you I dare not do this. I must tell papa--or, there, I'll be your help in this; I'll come with you, and you shall confess to Frank."

"Why, he'd kill me. I know it has been a surprise to you, and you are a bit taken aback, but think about it, and you will see that it is your duty to help me now. Good-bye, Claire dear," she continued, as she kissed her sister. "n.o.body knows anything about this but you, and it is our secret, mind. Good-bye."

Claire hardly heard the door close as May rustled out of the room, hot and excited by the confidence she had had to make, but evidently quite at her ease, as her bright eyes and smile showed, when she looked up from her carriage and nodded at her sister.

Claire looked down at her, drawn involuntarily to the window; and as the carriage drove off, and she still remained gazing straight before her, an officer pa.s.sed and raised his hat.

Claire had an instinctive feeling that it was Major Rockley, but she neither looked nor moved, for the face of a tiny child seemed to be looking up at her, smiling, and asking her sympathy.

Then she started into life as there was another footstep on the boulder path, and another hat was raised, and an eager appealing look met hers, making her shrink hastily away, with her erst blank face growing agitated as she drew back trembling and fighting hard to keep down the sobs that rose.

For all that was past now for her. With the secrets she had held within her breast before, how dared she to think of his love? Now there was another--a secret so fraught with future trouble that she hardly dared dwell upon all that she had heard. It had come upon her that morning like a thunderclap--this new trouble, known only to herself and the fisherman's wife. So May had said: for she had gone to her sister to demand her aid in happy ignorance of this part of her miserable story being known, beside much more, to little library-keeping Miss Clode.

Volume One, Chapter XXVI.

THE MONEY-LENDER AT HOME.

"Who is it?"

"It's that Major Rockley, Jo-si-ah, and he's walking up and down, switching his riding-whip about, and he'll be knocking down some of the chimney if you don't make haste."

"Let him wait a minute," said Barclay, finishing a letter.

"I do 'ate that man, Jo-si-ah--that I do," said Mrs Barclay.

"I wish you wouldn't talk so, old lady, when I'm writing."