The Master of the Ceremonies Part 67

"Am I to use force?" he cried.

"For your own sake, no. Father, the letter is not what you think. For your own peace of mind, let it stay."

His hands dropped to his sides at his daughter's wild appeal, and the convulsed angry look once more gave place to the one of dread, as he drew back a step.

"Tell me," he cried, still hesitating, "is it from that libertine, Sir Harry Payne?"

"No, no!"

"From Rockley?"

"No, father. How can you think me so degraded--so low!"

"Then--then--"

"Father, for pity's sake!" she cried, as she crept to his knees and embraced them. "Can you not see how I am willing to bear everything to save you pain? Has there not been agony and suffering enough in this house? You cannot think--you cannot believe. Is it not better that we should let this rest?"

He raised his trembling hands to his lips in a nervous, excited way, looking searchingly and furtively by turns in his child's piteous face.

The rage in his own had died out, to give place to the look of terror; and, as Claire clung to him, he now and again glanced at the door, as if he would flee from her presence.

"No, no," he said at last. "I was wrong. I will not see the letter.

You have your secrets: I have mine. Claire, my child, there is a veil, drawn down by you, over that night's work. I dare not lift it, I dare not look."

"Once more, father," she said, "had we not better let it rest? I am content; I make no murmur against my fate."

"No," he said, flashing out again into anger; "but--hush!--stop!--I must not," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "These strange fits. I cannot bear them."

He threw back and shook his head excitedly.

"I should go mad--I should go mad."

"Father!"

"There, I am calm again, my child. I am not myself sometimes. There-- there--it is past."

He bent over and raised her to his breast, where she laid her head, uttering a piteous sigh.

"Stricken," he whispered; "stricken, my child. The workings of a terrible fate. Don't reproach--don't think ill of me, Claire. Some day the light may come--no, no," he cried wildly; "better the darkness. I am so weak--so torn by the agony I have endured. So weak, so pitiful a man; but, with all this wretched vanity and struggle for place, my miserable heart has been so full of love for you all--for my little May."

Claire shivered.

"No, no," he cried excitedly. "Claire, my child, don't speak. Hush!

listen, my child. There have been cases where, in self-abnegation--the sins of others--have been borne--by the innocent--the innocent! Oh, my child, my child!"

His head dropped upon his daughter's shoulder, and he burst into a fit of sobbing, the outpourings of a flood of anguish that he fought vainly to restrain.

"Father, dear father!" she whispered, as her arms tightened around him.

"Claire, my child--my child!"

"Yes," she said, as she seemed to be growing stronger and more firm; "your child--not your judge. Father, I see my duty clearly now. Your help and comfort to the end."

Volume Two, Chapter XIX.

PEACE AND SYMPATHY.

"And I thought that there would be no more rest and comfort here, my child. Claire, one night--"

"No, no, dearest," she cried, as she laid her soft white hand upon his lips; "the past cannot be recalled."

"Only this little revelation," he said, as he kissed the soft hand and held it to his cheek, "then the past shall be as dead with us. One night--since that night--I said to myself that I could bear no more, and I locked myself in my room; but something seemed to stay my hand--a something seemed to bid me live on, even in my pitiful, degraded state; and always--I cannot tell you how--your face seemed to be before my eyes. I tried to put it from me, but it was there. I fought against it, for I was enraged with you one minute, trembling with dread of what I dare not see the next; but still your face seemed to be there, my child, and I said at last that I would live it down or face it, if the dread time that haunts me always, as if lying in my path, should at last leap out."

"Father!"

"My child! There, there; we do not know how much we can bear until the burden is laid upon us; and now let us cleave together like soldiers in the battle of life. Claire, child, we must live."

She sat holding his hand in hers, with her brow knit, and a far-off look in her eyes.

"I am so old and broken," he said musingly; "so helpless. For so many years my miserable energies have been bent solely to this pitiful life, or I would say let us leave here at once, and go where we are not known, to live in some simple fashion; but--I know nothing. I cannot work."

"But I can, father," she said, with a look of elation in her eyes. "I am young and strong, and I will work for you as you have worked for me.

Let us go."

"Where, my child?" he said, as he kissed her hand tenderly. "What work would you do--you, so beautiful, so unfit for the rough toil of life?"

"As a teacher--a governess," she cried; but he shook his head, and began to tremble and draw her closer to him.

"No, no," he said excitedly; "that would mean separation; and Claire,"

he whispered, "I am so weak--so broken--that I must have your young spirit to sustain me. I cannot live without you. Left alone--no, no, no, I dare not be left alone."

"Hush, dear!" she said, laying her cheek upon his shoulder, and drawing him to her breast, to soothe the agony of dread from which he suffered.

"I will not leave you, then, father, I will be your help and stay.

Nothing shall separate us now."

"No, no." He whispered the words. "I could not live without you, Claire, and I dare not die. My miserable, useless life may prove useful yet. Yes, my child, I feel it--I know it. My work is not yet done.

Claire, my course is marked out for me; we must stay here till then."

"Till then, father?"

"Yes; and live it down. Yes, I am wanted here. You will help me?"

"Father, I am your child."

"Yes, yes," he cried, resuming his old flippant air so suddenly that Claire, who did not realise the reaction that had set in, gazed at him tremblingly. "I shall live it down as of old. We must begin again, my dear, and those miserable, brainless b.u.t.terflies will soon forget, and come to me for my help and introductions. We must not leave here, and the old fees will come once more."

Claire sighed.

"Yes, child, it would have been a happier life to have gone; but it is braver to stay. Let your sweet face show in its dignity how lightly you treat all slander and scandal. Some day, after all, you shall marry well."