Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Six.
The End of the Race.
Colonel Mellersh was the only one who was likely to ride with a cool head: the others were for racing at the top of the horses’ speed. And so it was that before long, as Richard Linnell sat well down and gave his horse its head, James Bell, whom the ride was gradually sobering in one sense, but also making far more excited as he realised clearly the position of his sister, shook his reins, pressed his horse’s flanks with his heels, and the brave beast began to almost fly. Naturally enough, the Colonel’s steed pressed more heavily upon its bit, refusing, after the fashion of a cavalry horse, to be left behind, and forcing itself between the other two, till the riders were knee to knee, and tearing along as if in a desperate charge.
“We’re distressing the horses, Dick,” said Mellersh, turning his head to his right; but Bell heard him.
“I’m sorry for the horses, sir; but they are his. Let them be distressed.”
“We must overtake them,” said Linnell between his teeth.
“Right, sir, right,” cried Bell. “Forward, Colonel. Please don’t draw rein.”
Fortunately for them, the night grew a little lighter, and along the treeless Down road they thundered. Every now and then one of the horses snorted as the dust flew, but mile after mile was spurned beneath their heels and they showed no sign of distress, but seemed to rejoice in the long night gallop and the music of their clattering hoofs.
The road was singularly silent and deserted; not so much as a foot-passenger was on the way, not a vehicle was seen.
A gate at last came in view as they were breathing the horses up a hill, after riding for some distance without a word, the very silence telling the intensity of the men’s feelings.
Here was a check, for the gate was closed, and no light visible, but Bell rode close up and kicked hard at the panel, till the door in the gatekeeper’s hut was opened.
“Now, then, quick!” cried Bell. “How long is it since a chaise and four passed?”
“Chaise and four?” said the man surlily.
“Yes, chaise and four. Has a chaise and four passed?”
“What, to-night?”
“Yes, to-night. Answer; quick, or—”
He caught the man by the collar, and the evasion he was about to utter did not pass his lips.
“Yes,” he growled; “one went by.”
“How long ago?” said the Colonel.
“How long?”
“Yes, yes. Quick, man, quick! and here’s a crown for the toll. Keep the change.”
This seemed to enliven the surly fellow’s faculties, and he took the money and rubbed his head as he began to unfasten the gate.
“Well, how long?” cried the Colonel.
“Long? Well a good bit ago, sir.”
“Yes, yes, but what do you mean by a good bit?”
“Mebbe two hours—mebbe hour and a half. I’ve been asleep since.”
“Come along,” cried the Colonel, who was as excited now as his companions. “There’s nothing more to be got from this lout.”
They left the man leaning on the gate, having gained nothing whatever by the colloquy but a short breathing space for their horses, and these continued their gallop the moment they were through.
They passed a side road now and then, and at the first Linnell turned in his saddle.
“Is it likely that they will leave the main road?” he said.
“No,” was the prompt answer given by Bell, without waiting for the Colonel to speak. “They’re going west—far enough, I dare say—and they must change their horses now and then. We shall hear of them at Cheldon.”
Bell was right, for, when, at the end of another quarter of an hour, they cantered into the little post town, there was a light still burning in a lantern in the inn yard, and an ostler proved to be a little more communicative.
Yes, a post-chaise—a yellow one—came in half an hour ago, and changed horses and went on. Their horses were all in a muck sweat, and here was one of the boys.
A postboy came out of the tap, and stood staring.
He knew nothing, he said, only that he and his mate had brought a party from Saltinville.
“A lady and gentleman?” said Linnell sharply.
“I d’know,” said the postboy. “I didn’t ride the wheeler; I was on one of the leaders.”
“But you must have seen?” cried Linnell angrily.
“No; I didn’t see nothing. I’d enough to do to look after my horses. Bad road and precious hilly ’bout here, sir.”
“Come along,” cried Linnell angrily.
“Walk your horses for a few minutes,” said Mellersh quietly; and as Linnell and Bell went on he dismounted and thrust his hand into his pocket. “Just tighten these girths for me a little, will you, my man?” he said, turning to the postboy, and slipping a guinea into his hand.
“Cert’ny, sir. Get a bit slack they do after a few miles canter. Steady, my lad. Nice horse, sir, that he is,” continued the postboy, who was smooth civility itself. “Must be a pleasure to ride him.”
“Yes,” said Mellersh, as the man went on talking and buckling with his head supporting the saddle-flap. “You don’t get such a nag as that for a leader, eh?”
“No, sir, not likely. Fifteen pounders is about our cut. That one’s worth a hundred. All of a sweat he is, and yet not a bit blown. You’ve come fast, sir.”
“Yes; at a good rattling gallop nearly all the ten miles.”
“’Leven, sir, a good ’leven, and a bad road.”
“Is it, though?” said Mellersh quietly, as he prepared to mount again.
“All that, sir.”
“Postboys’ miles, eh?”
“No, sir; honest miles. We’d charge twelve. Wouldn’t you like them stirrups shortened two or three holes?” said the man eagerly.
“No, thanks; no. I’m an old soldier, and we always ride with a long stirrup. Matter of use. Shall we catch them, do you think?”
“What, with them horses, sir? Yes, easy. They’ve got a shocking bad team. They never have a decent change here. Lookye here, sir. You put on a decent canter, and you’ll be up to them before they get to Drumley. The road’s awful for wheels for about six miles; but when you get about a mile on from here, you can turn off the road on the off-side, and there’s five miles of good, close turf for you where a chaise couldn’t go, but there’s plenty of room for a horse. Good-night, sir; thankye, sir. Good luck to you.”
Mellersh said “good-night” and cantered off after his companions, his steed needing no urging to join its fellows.
“Anyone would think that a guinea dissolved into golden oil and made a man’s temper and his tongue run easily. I can’t prove it, but I should not be surprised if that was one of Rockley’s own guineas. Odd. Running him down with his own horses, and his own coin. Well, he deserves it all.”
“We’re on the track right enough, Dick,” he cried, as he overtook Linnell; Bell, in his impatience, being a couple of hundred yards ahead.
“Are you sure? I don’t understand this fellow. Why should he be so eager to overtake that scoundrel?”
“Can’t say. Puzzled me,” replied Mellersh drily.
“Is he leading us wrong?”
“No. We are well on our way, and shall overtake them by the time they reach the next posting house. Forward.”
Mellersh did not feel quite sure, but his confidence increased as he found the postboy’s words correct about the badness of the road, and the smooth turf at the side, on to which they turned, and cantered along easily for mile after mile.
Every now and then Bell burst forth with some fierce expletive, as if he could not contain his rage; and they gathered that at times it was against himself, at others against Rockley. As fierce a rage, too, burned in Linnell’s breast, compounded of bitter hatred, jealousy, and misery.
He could not talk to Mellersh, many of whose remarks fell upon unheeding ears, while Linnell asked himself why he was doing all this to save from misery and shame a woman who did not deserve his sympathy.
But, when he reasoned thus, it seemed as if Claire’s pure, sad face looked up into his reproachfully, and the thoughts her gentle loving eyes engendered made him press his horse’s flanks, and send him along faster as he said to himself:
“It is a mystery. I cannot understand it; and were she everything that is bad, I should be compelled to fight for her and try to save her to the end.”
Mile after mile was passed, and though the dull thudding of their horses’ hoofs upon the soft turf gave them opportunities for hearing the rattle of wheels and the trampling on the rough road, no sound greeted their ears.
“We shall never catch them, gentlemen, like this,” cried Bell at last. “Curse the horses! Push on. If we kill the poor brutes we must overtake that chaise.”
“Forward then,” said Mellersh eagerly, for there was that in the young man’s voice that cleared away the last shadow of doubt and suspicion.
They had been on the grass waste beside the road for quite five miles when, all at once, the way seemed to narrow; and they were about to turn on to the road, but Linnell drew rein suddenly.
“Stop!” he cried. “Listen!”
There was no doubt about it. As soon as they drew up, with their mounts breathing hard, and snorting or champing their bits, there came on the night air the beat, beat of trotting horses, and the rattle of wheels.
“There,” cried Mellersh, “that settles it. Forward, again!”
The horses seemed almost to divine that they had only to put on a final spurt and finish their task, for they went off at a free gallop, and before long there was the rattle of the wheels plainly heard, though for the most part it was drowned by the sound of the trampling hoofs, for the pursuers were now upon the hard, chalky road.
A quarter of an hour’s hard riding and they were well in view, in spite of the darkness of the night and the cloud of dust churned up by the team in the chaise. It was evident that the postboys were being urged to do their best; and as they had put their wretched horses to a gallop, the pursuers could see the chaise sway from side to side when the wheels jolted in and out of the ruts worn in the neglected road.
Had any doubt remained as to the occupants of the chaise, they would soon have been at an end; for, as Linnell pushed on taking one side, and Mellersh the other, Rockley’s voice could be heard shouting from the front of the chaise, and bidding the postboys whip and spur.
It was the work of minutes, then of moments, when Linnell, who was now leading in a break-neck gallop, yelled to the postboys to stop.
“Go on, you scoundrels! Gallop!” roared Rockley from the front window. “Go on, or I fire.”
The man on the wheeler half turned in his saddle and made as if to pull up, but there was the flash of a pistol, the quick report, and as a bullet whistled over his head, the postboy uttered a cry of fear, and bent down till his face almost touched the horse’s mane, while his companion on the leader did the same, and they whipped and spurred their jaded horses frantically.
“Stop!” shouted Linnell again. “Stop!”
“Go on! Gallop!” roared Rockley, “or I’ll blow out your brains.”
The men crouched lower. Their horses tore on; the chaise leaped and rocked and seemed about to go over, and all was rush and excitement, noise and dust.
Linnell was well abreast of the chaise door now, and pushing on to get to the postboy who rode the leader, when the glass on his side was dashed down, and, pistol-in-hand, Rockley leaned out.
“Back!” he said hoarsely, “or I fire.”
“You scoundrel!” roared Linnell. “Cowardly dog! but you are caught.”
“Stop, or I fire,” shouted Rockley again, fuming with rage and vexation at being overtaken in the hour of his triumph.
“Fire if you dare!” cried Linnell excitedly, as he pressed on.
Crack!
There was a second flash and report, and the horse Linnell rode made a spring forward as if it had been hit.
The thought flashed across Linnell’s brain that in another few moments the brave beast he bestrode would stagger and fall beneath him, and that then the cowardly scoundrel who had fired would escape with the woman he was ready to give his life to save. A curious mist seemed to float before his eyes, the hot blood of rage to surge into his brain, lights danced before him, and for the moment he felt hardly accountable for his actions.
All he knew was that he was abreast of the wheeler, with the man whipping and spurring with all his might; that the horses were snorting and tearing along in a wild race, and that Rockley was leaning out of the window yelling to the men to gallop or he would fire again.
Linnell had a misty notion Mellersh was somewhere on the other side, and that Bell was galloping behind, but he did not call to them for help. He did not even see that Mellersh was pushing forward and had reached out to catch the off-leader’s rein. All he did realise was that Claire Denville, the woman he loved, was in peril; that her whole future depended upon him; and that he must save her at any cost.
He was galloping now a little in advance of the postboy. Their knees had touched for an instant; then his leg was in front, and he was leaning forward.
“Touch that rein, and I fire,” roared Rockley.
Then there was once more a flash cutting the darkness; and as the bullet from Rockley’s pistol sped on its errand, the horse made one plunge forward, and then pitched upon its head. There was a tremendous crash of breaking glass and woodwork, and beside the road the wreck of a chaise with two horses down, and the leaders tangled in their harness and kicking furiously till they had broken free.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Seven.
Richard Linnell thinks he has been a Fool.
For a few moments, in the suddenness of the catastrophe, every one was too much astounded to take any steps. Linnell was the first to recover himself, and, leaping from his horse, he threw the rein to Bell.
Mellersh followed his example, joining Linnell as he tried to drag open the door of the chaise, which was over upon its side with the off-wheeler kicking in the front, as it lay there upon its companion in a tangle of harness.
The framework was so wrenched that for a minute or two the door would not yield, and the utter silence within sent a chill of horror through Linnell.
“Let me come, Dick,” whispered Mellersh, the catastrophe that had so suddenly befallen them forcing him to speak in subdued tones; “let me come, Dick. I’m stronger, perhaps.”
“Pish!” was the angry reply, as Linnell strained at the door, which suddenly yielded and flew open, the glass falling out with a tinkling noise.
Just at the same time the man with the leaders trotted back with his frightened horses, the broken traces dragging behind.
“Hurt, Jack?” he cried to his fellow.
“No, not much,” was the answer, as the postboy who rode the wheeler dragged his leg from beneath his horse, and immediately stepped round and held down the head of the animal, which was kicking and struggling to rise. “Woa! will yer. Hold still, Captain!”
With the customary feeling of helplessness that comes over a horse as soon as its head is pressed down, the poor animal ceased its frantic efforts, uttered a piteous sigh that was like that of a human being, and lay perfectly still.
“Old Spavin’s a dead ’un, mate,” said the man.
“Dead?” said the second postboy.
“Dead as a nit, mate. There’ll be something to pay for to-night’s job.”
“Anyone killed?” said the second man in a whisper.
“I d’know, and I don’t care,” grumbled the man; “my leg’s bruzz horrid. Shutin’ like that! It’s as bad as highwaymen. Here, come and help cut some of this harness. They’ll stand now. Take out your knife, mate, and use it. They’ll have to pay. I can’t sit on this ’oss’s head all night.”
“There’s some of ’em got it,” whispered the second man in a low voice, as he dismounted and stood beside his comrade watching while Linnell lifted out the insensible figure of one of the occupants of the chaise, and bore her, tangled in a thick cloak, to the roadside, where he laid her reverently upon the turf.
“With you directly, Dick,” said Mellersh, still in the subdued voice, as he climbed into the chaise, and, exerting all his strength, raised Rockley and half thrust, half lifted him out, to drag him to the other side of the road.
“Is she much hurt, sir?” said Bell hoarsely. “I can’t leave the horses.”
“I can’t say. I don’t know yet,” panted Linnell, who was trying to lay open the folds of the cloak, which he at last succeeded in doing, so that the air blew freely on the insensible woman’s face.
Linnell’s pulse beat madly, as he half closed his eyes, and kept his head averted while he knelt there in the semi-darkness, and placed his hand upon the woman’s breast.
Then he snatched his hand away and felt giddy. But a throb of joy ran through him. Her heart was beating, and he felt sure she was only fainting from the fright.
“Why don’t you speak, sir?” cried Bell angrily. “Is she much hurt?”
“I think not, my man, only fainting,” said Linnell.
“Well?”
This to Mellersh, who came to him from where he had laid Rockley.
“I don’t know,” was the answer to the abrupt query. “Only stunned, I think. Head cut with the broken glass.”
“Not killed then?” said Linnell bitterly.
“No. Such as he generally come off easily,” replied Mellersh. “What’s to be done?”
“Better send our man back for a fresh post-chaise,” said Linnell quickly. “Will you attend to Miss Denville?” he whispered. “I think I’ll take one of the horses and ride back myself for the chaise.”
“Why not let me go, Dick?”
“No,” said Linnell in sombre tones. “I’ve stopped this wretched flight. My part’s done. Mellersh, I trust to you to place her once more under her father’s charge.”
“Will not you do it?”
“I? No. I have done. We’ll send this man for the chaise, though. That scoundrel Rockley may come to again and be troublesome.”
“Lookye here, gents,” said the man who had ridden the wheeler, “we want to know who’s going to pay for this night’s job. My leg’s bad; my ’oss is dead; and the chay’s all to pieces.”
“Wait and see, my man,” said Mellersh sternly. “You will be recompensed.”
“But fine words butter no parsnips, you know, sir. I want to know—”
“Hold your tongue, fellow! I am Colonel Mellersh, of Saltinville. That man you were driving is Major Rockley, of the —th Dragoons. Of course everything will be paid for, and you will be recompensed. Now then, which of you can ride back for a fresh chaise?”
“Well, sir, I—”
“Damn it, man, don’t talk. Five guineas if a chaise is here within an hour.”
“Ah, that’s business, sir. Come on, mate. We’ll be back before then.”
The man seemed to forget his bruised leg, and with the help of his comrade the girths were unbuckled, and the saddle dragged off the dead horse, placed upon the other, and they were about to start when the first postboy asked whether it would be safe to leave the injured chaise where it was.
As it happened, in the struggle it had been dragged off the road on to the grass border, and lay there, so that there was ample room for passers-by; and, satisfied with this, the postboys were off at a rapid trot.
“Rather an awkward position if that fellow is seriously injured,” said Linnell grimly.
“Pooh! man; it was an accident, and he was engaged in an unlawful act,” said Mellersh coolly, but with a peculiar meaning in his tone.
Linnell winced, for the mental pang was sharp. His old friend suggested that Claire might have been a willing partner in that night’s adventure.
He made no reply. He dared not, for fear that it should be an angry retort; and content that he had certainly for the present frustrated Rockley’s machinations, he walked to his side, and, seeing that his temple was bleeding, he knelt down by him, took out his handkerchief, and bound up the cut, furtively watching Mellersh the while as he stood by the other prostrate figure on the turf.
Linnell longed to go to her and kneel there, holding her little hand in his, but he was too heartsore; and, telling himself that there was more dignity in keeping aloof and playing the manly part of ceasing to care for one whom he believed to be unworthy of his love, even if he rendered help when there was need, he contented himself with deputing the care he would gladly have bestowed to another.
It had grown darker during the past few minutes, a thicker cloud having veiled the sky, when, as Linnell rose from where he knelt, he heard a sigh which went through him.
“She is coming round,” he muttered. “Poor girl! Poor, weak, foolish girl! I—”
“Why, Dick!” cried Mellersh in a sharp, angry voice. “Come here!”
“What is it? There is no danger, is there?” cried Linnell, hastening across the road.
“Danger? No,” cried Mellersh angrily. “Whom do you suppose we have stopped here?”
“Whom? Miss Denville, of course, and—Good Heavens!—Miss Dean!”
“What is it? Where am I? You—Mr Linnell!—Colonel Mellersh!” said Cora confusedly, as she struggled up into a sitting position.
“At your service, madam,” said Mellersh, with a peculiar bitterness in his voice.
“What has happened?” cried Cora, holding her hand to her head, and staring wildly round till her eyes lighted upon the broken chaise. “Oh!”
She said no more, but struggled to her feet, turned giddy, and would have fallen, had not Mellersh caught her arm and supported her.
It was evident that she had realised her position in that one glance, and she seemed to shudder slightly. At the end of a few minutes, though, she recovered, and, shrinking from Mellersh, she looked round.
“Give me that cloak,” she said calmly. “It is cold.”
Linnell, who was half-stunned by the discovery, hurriedly stooped and picked up the cloak, spreading it rather clumsily and placing it upon her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said coldly; and there was an awkward pause, during which Mellersh walked to and fro with the look of a caged wild beast.
“Well?” said Cora suddenly. “Why are we waiting, Colonel Mellersh? Will you kindly see me home?”
“See you home?” he replied.
“Where is that man—Major Rockley?” cried Cora hastily.
“I am afraid he is incapacitated for further service, Miss Dean,” said Mellersh coldly. “The accident has prevented him from carrying out—shall I say your wishes?”
“What?” she replied. “Do you think I—! Pah!”
She turned her back upon him angrily.
“Mr Linnell,” she said, “you will not insult me if I ask you to see me safely home, even if I do not enter into any explanations. Let us go at once.”
There was a strange resentful hauteur in her tone, and Linnell offered her his arm.
“We will walk a little way if you wish it, Miss Dean,” he said; “but we ought hardly to leave Major Rockley in this state. My friend Colonel Mellersh—”
“Don’t mind me, Dick,” said the latter. “I’ll play hospital nurse, if Miss Dean will trust me with the care of the Major.”
Cora did not condescend to reply, but stepped forward as if to walk back.
“We are many miles from Saltinville, Miss Dean,” said Linnell, “and a post-chaise will be here soon.”
Further conversation was prevented by James Bell whispering hurriedly:
“It’s all a mistake, Mr Linnell, and the consequences will be terrible if I am found to have taken the Major’s horses. Can you do without me?”
“Yes,” said Linnell quickly; “but your master?”
“I can’t think of him, sir,” said Bell hastily. “I must think of myself. Gentlemen, I thought we were chasing another lady whom I would have given my life to save. I stood by you; will you stand by me?”
“Yes,” said Mellersh quickly. “Take the horses back. I’ll stay by your master till help comes.”
“And you will not tell upon me about the horses, gentlemen?”
“No,” said Mellersh shortly. “Go.”
“And you, Mr Linnell?”
“You may trust me,” was the reply.
Bell went off with the horses on the instant, and a tedious time of waiting ensued, the end of which was that it was arranged when the fresh post-chaise came that Mellersh should ride with Cora and the injured man back to the posting house, Linnell walking by the side of the chaise.
On reaching the inn, Rockley was placed in the landlord’s care, with instructions to fetch a medical man, and the three afterwards had a perfectly silent ride back to Saltinville, where Mrs Dean was found sitting up in a high state of excitement, and ready to greet her daughter:
“Lor! Bet—Cora—you have give me a turn. I thought it was a real elopement, and now you’ve come back.”
“Well, Dick,” said Mellersh grimly, as they stood together in the latter’s room. “What do you think of it now?”
“I think I’ve been a fool,” said Linnell shortly; “but I can’t quite make it out.”
“Neither can I,” responded Mellersh, after a pause.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Eight.
Under a Thick Cloak.
“You’ll be so glad to hear, my dear,” prattled on Mrs Barclay, who was exceedingly warm and happy. “There’s quite a reconciliation, my dear.”
“Reconciliation?”
“Yes, dear. Young Cornet Denville has just fetched her to take her round the grounds, which is just as it should be, you know. I’d have gone with them, but I’m afraid of the night air, and catching a bad cold, you see, and so I think it’s better not to risk taking a chill, and—”
“Who fetched her—Cornet Denville?”
“Yes, my dear, her brother; and I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t talk, Mrs Barclay,” cried Cora quickly—“don’t talk, pray, only tell me which way she went.”
“Through that door, my dear, and on to the lawn. You’ll catch ’em if you make haste. Bless us and save us, what is the matter with her? Any one would think poor Claire had run off with her young man. Dear, dear! what a blessing to be sure,” sighed Mrs Barclay complacently, as she fanned herself, “to have one’s own Jo-si-ah, and no troubles of that kind now.”
Cora was gone—out through the window and on to the grass. There were couples here and there in the dim light, but not those she wished to see, as she stood passing her large lace scarf over her head.
“What shall I do?” she moaned; and in frantic haste she ran down the first path she came to, feeling more and more sure that she was wrong; but directly after she found that this crossed a broad grass path at right angles; and as she reached it she uttered a gasp, for there was a couple coming down towards her, and she felt rather than saw that it was those she sought.
They were close upon her, coming between the bushes, and Morton was talking loudly, with the thick utterance of one nearly inebriated, while Claire was answering in a troubled way.
“Very sorry,” he said slowly, “sorry, little sis. Love you too much not to ’pologise, but—man’s position—as officer and a gentleman—”
“Yes, yes, dear, you’ve said so before.”
“And I must say you—Hallo! Who’s thish?”
“Claire!” cried Cora, in a low whisper. “Back to the house—quick!”
“Miss Dean!”
“Yes. Quick! For heaven’s sake. Go. Your father.”
Cora did not know it, but she had touched the right chord.
Claire had seemed startled at first, and had hesitated as they stood together in the darkness with Morton holding the new-comer’s arm; but as Cora exclaimed, as the place of safety Claire was to seek, “your father!” the thought flashed through Claire’s brain that he had had some terrible seizure—or, worse, that horror of which he was in dread had come upon him, and in an instant, she had turned and run back towards the house.
“Why, what the dickensh—I say, what’s matter?” stammered Morton. “Here, Miss Dean, I know you—you know—bu’ful Miss Dean. Proud of your company. Officer and a gentleman—and take my—”
It was so cleverly done that Cora was taken by surprise. She was about, as the simplest way out of the difficulty, to take the lad’s arm, and walk back with him to the house, when there was a slight rustle behind her, the sound of a blow or fall, and the latter muffled and strange, for a great cavalry cloak was thrown over her head, twisted tightly round her, binding her arms to her side, and stifling the cry she uttered; and as she struggled fiercely for her liberty she was lifted from her feet and borne away.
It was all done so quickly that she was staggered, and she had not recovered from her confusion when she felt herself forced into a carriage—the chaise, evidently, of which she had heard. Then came the banging of a door as she was held back by two strong arms, the swaying and jerking of the chaise as it went over rough ground and ruts. Then she realised that it swayed more than ever as they turned on to a hard road, and she could hear the dull, smothered rattle of the wheels and the tramp of horses’ feet.
She was a woman of plenty of strength of mind; but, for the time being, the fact of having fallen into this trap laid for Claire stunned her, and she felt a depressing dread. But by degrees this gave place to her returning courage, and she struggled furiously, but found that she was tightly held, and a deep voice she knew kept on bidding her to be patient—not to be alarmed—and the like.
In the midst of her excitement she ceased struggling and lay back in the corner of the chaise thinking, for the adventure had now assumed a ludicrous aspect. It was dramatic—a scene that might have happened in a play, and she laughed as she thought of Major Rockley’s rage and disappointment when he realised his mistake.
“I’m not afraid of him,” she thought, “and I hate him with all my heart. It is only waiting till we stop, and then the tables will be turned.”
“Ah, that’s more sensible,” came through the thick cloak. “Promise to be patient and not call out, and I will take off the cloak.”
It was very hot. She could hardly breathe, but she dreaded having it removed till she recalled how dark it was; that it must be even darker, shut up in the chaise, and that she had on her large lace mantilla, with which she could well cover her face.
“Shall I take off the cloak?” was said, after they had stopped and changed horses; and, feeling that she must have air, she made a gesture with her hands, passing them up towards her face as she felt the great cloth-covering partly removed, and, as it was drawn away, carefully covering her face and neck with the scarf.
“At last!” exclaimed her companion, trying to pass his arm round her, but she struck at him so fiercely that he desisted, and just then the chaise slackened speed.
“What is it?” he cried, gripping his prisoner’s arm with one hand, as he leaned forward and let down a front window.
“Like us to go on as fast as this, Captain? Road’s getting a bit hilly.”
“Yes, and faster, you fools. On, quick! What’s that?”
“Sounds like horses, sir, coming on behind.”
“Oh, not after us, but go on as fast as you can.”
The chaise rumbled on as the window was drawn up, and the sound of the horses deadened; but Rockley let down the window on his side of the vehicle and thrust out his head.
As he did so Cora listened intently, and made out the beating of horses’ hoofs behind, now dying out, now louder, now dying out again, but always heard; and her heart gave a joyful bound as the thought came that an alarm might have been given by Morton Denville, and these be friends in pursuit—Richard Linnell perhaps.
Her heart sank like lead. No; she was not afraid of Major Rockley, and she did not care a fig for the opinion of Saltinville society. She had been carried off against her will, and the sneers would be those against Rockley, not against her.
The chaise might go on for hours—all night, if the Major liked. The longer it was before he discovered his mistake the greater his rage would be. What was there to fear? If she shrieked the postboys must come to her help, or she could command help at the next stopping-place.
And the horsemen coming on?
Yes, they were evidently gaining ground, but it was not to overtake her. He was trying to save the woman he loved—he, Richard Linnell—and her heart sank lower and lower still.
Then it gave a bound, for there was the click-click of a pistol, just as before now she had heard it on the stage, and Rockley said:
“That’s right. I’m glad you are quiet. I’ve got you, and, by Jove, I’ll shoot the man who tries to get you away as I would a dog.”
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Nine.
A Little Gossip.
That hat which the Master of the Ceremonies raised so frequently to the various visitors looked in its solidity as if it might very well become an heirloom, and descend to his son, should he in more mature life take to his father’s duties.
Stuart Denville had just replaced it for about the twentieth time that morning, when he encountered Lady Drelincourt in her chair.
Her ladyship had been very cold since her visit to the Denvilles, but this particular morning she was all smiles and good humour.
“Now, here you are, Denville, and you’ll tell me all about it. You were there?”
“Yes, dear Lady Drelincourt,” said Denville, with his best smile, as he thought of Morton and his possible future. “I was there. At—er—”
“Pontardent’s, yes. Now, tell me, there’s a good man, all about it. Is the Major much hurt? Now, how tiresome! What do you want, Bray? You are always hunting me about with that wicked boy.”
“No, no,” said Sir Matthew, in his ponderous fashion. “Drawn, Lady Drelincourt, drawn. Attracted, eh, Payne?”
Sir Harry Payne—“that wicked boy,” as he was termed by her ladyship—declared upon his reputation that Sir Matthew Bray was quite right. It was attraction.
“I felt it myself, demme, that I did, horribly, madam; but I said I would be true to my friend Bray, here, and I fled from temptation like a man.”
“I’m afraid I can’t believe you—either of you,” said her ladyship, simpering. “But, now, do tell me—no, no, don’t go, Denville; I want to talk to you. Sir Harry, now was Major Rockley, that dreadful Mephistopheles, half killed?”
Sir Harry Payne screwed up his face, shook his head, took snuff loudly, and, raising his hat, walked away.
“How tantalising!” cried Lady Drelincourt. “Now, Bray, do tell me. Is it true that he was carrying off that Miss Dean, and her mother sent Colonel Mellersh and Mr Linnell to fetch them back?”
“Mustn’t tell. Can’t say a word, dear Lady Drelincourt. Brother-officer, you see. But—”
Sir Matthew Bray blew out his cheeks, frowned, rolled his eyes, pursed up his lips, and looked as if he were fully charged with important information which honour forbade him to part with, ending by shaking his head at her ladyship, and then giving it a solemn nod.
“I knew I was right,” said her ladyship triumphantly. “Now, didn’t you hear the same version, Denville?”
“Well, I—must confess, your ladyship—that I—er—did.”
“Of course. That’s it. Well, Rockley’s a very, very wicked man, and I don’t think I shall ever speak to him again. I’ve quite done with him. Yes, you may stay a little while, Bray, but not long. People are so scandalous. Good-bye, Denville. Is your little girl quite well?”
Denville declared that she was in the best of health; and, as Lady Drelincourt was wheeled away in one direction, so much fashionable lumber, the Master of the Ceremonies went mincing in the other.
Saltinville boasted of about a dozen versions of the scandal, one of the most popular being that which was picked up at Miss Clode’s. In this version Cora Dean had no part, but Claire Denville had.
For a whole week these various accounts were bandied about and garbled and told, till the result of the mixture was very singular, and it would have puzzled an expert to work out the simple truth. Then something fresh sprang up, and the elopement or abduction—nobody at last knew which, or who were the principals—was forgotten, especially as Rockley was seen about as usual, and the proprietor of the chaise and the killed horse was fully recompensed by the Major. How he obtained the money, he and Josiah Barclay best knew.
But Stuart Denville was disappointed with respect to his daughter’s prospects. It was sheer pleasure to her to be able to stay quietly at home; but her father bitterly regretted the absence of invitation cards, while he, for one, remained strangely in ignorance that it was his own child who was nearly carried off that night.
Volume Two—Chapter Thirty.
A Terrible Resurrection.
“A gentleman to see you, ma’am.”
“To see me, Isaac?” said Claire, starting in terror, and with a strange foreboding of ill. “Who is it? Did he give his name?”
“No, miss; he would not give any name. Said it was on important business. He asked for Miss May first.”
“For Miss May?”
“Yes, ma’am; and I told him she was married, and did not live here now; and he smiled, and said ‘Of course.’ Then he said he would see you.”
Claire had risen, and she stood listening to the man, clutching the chair tightly, and striving hard to seem composed.
“Where is he, Isaac?” she asked, hardly knowing what fell from her lips.
“In the dining-room, ma’am.”
“I will come down.”
Isaac left the room, and Claire drew a long breath.
Who could it be? Some one who had forgotten that May was married, and then recalled it! What did it mean?
She stood with her hands tightly clasped, gazing straight before her, and then walked quickly to the door, and down into the dining-room, so quietly that the short, slight man gazing out of the window did not hear her entrance.
Claire was puzzled while for the moment she gazed at the attitude of her visitor, whose long black hair fell over the collar of his tightly-buttoned surtout, as he stood with one hand resting upon his hip, the other holding his hat and tasselled cane.
She drew a breath of relief. It was no one she knew, of that she felt sure. Perhaps it was no fresh trouble after all.
As if divining the presence of some one in the room, the visitor just then turned quickly, displaying handsome aquiline features, with the olive skin and dark eyes of a young man of about thirty, who threw down his hat and cane and advanced smiling.
“My dear Miss Denville—my dear Claire!” he exclaimed, speaking with a foreign accent.
Claire stood as if frozen, gazing at him in horror.
“M. Gravani!” she cried at last in a hoarse whisper.
“Say Louis,” he said eagerly, taking her hands and kissing them. “Why not? Surely my dear May told you—that she is my wife. No, no, do not be angry with me. It was wrong, I know. But you—you were always so sweet and good and kind, dear Claire!”
He kissed her hands again, and she stood as if in a dream while he went on—speaking fervidly.
“You, so tender, and who loved dear May so much. You will forgive me. We were so young—I was so poor—I dared not speak. What would the Signore Denville have said? That I was mad. May must have told you—she did tell you we were married?”
“Yes—yes,” said Claire slowly, “she told me.”
“That is well. And the old man—the good father, she told him, too!”
“No,” said Claire, still in the same slow, dreamy way, as she strove to listen to her visitor, and at the same time work out in her own mind the meaning of the horrible situation in which her sister was placed.
“She did not tell him? She promised me she would. But the servant told me he knew that May was married.”
“Yes,” stammered Claire; “he knew.”
“I ought to have spoken, but I dared not. I was younger then and so poor. I was obliged to go back to my Italia to try if I could not win fame there and fortune for my little flower of beauty—my May-bud. Claire—dear sister—no, no, you frown—you must forgive us, for we were so young, and we loved so much. Ah, you are not well. I frighten you. I came here so sudden. But my news is so good. I have succeeded so in my art, and I have possessions too. My poor father is dead. I am not a rich man—what you English call rich; but I have enough, and you will forgive me. But, May? She is not here?”
“No, no,” said Claire, with her lips turning ashy pale.
“She is not far away?”
“Not far away,” said Claire, “but Louis, Monsieur Gravani—”
“No, no, not Monsieur—not Signore. I am Louis, your fratello, your brother. Now tell me. My heart beats to be with her once again. She is not changed, I know. The same little angel face that Raffaello painted, and that I have had ever in my heart.”
“No, she is not changed,” sighed Claire.
“No, she could not change. La mia fiorella!”
“But Louis—”
“Yes? What? Why do you look at me so? She is ill!”
He raised his voice to a wild cry, and his handsome face grew convulsed as he seized Claire’s hands.
“No, no,” she cried. “No, no; she is quite well.”
“Then take me to her now. I can wait no longer. I must see her now.”
“No, no, you cannot. It is impossible,” cried Claire.
“Then there is something that you do not tell me. Speak; you are killing me.”
“She—she—my poor sister—she thought—she heard—she had news, Louis—that you were dead.”
“Dead?—I?—dead? Oh, my poor little flower!” he cried, with a ring of tender pity in his voice, but changing to a fierce burst of anger on the instant. “But who told her? Who sent her those lies?”
“I don’t know—I never knew. But she grieved for you, Louis—because you were dead.”
“My little tender flower! Oh! oh! it is too cruel. But I am here—here, waiting to press her to my heart once more. You shall take me to her now.”
“It would be impossible. I could not. It would kill her. No, you must wait till to-morrow.”
“No, no; I could not wait,” he cried excitedly. “I love her. I am here. I must see her now.”
Claire felt beside herself, and her hands dropped helplessly to her side, as if she despaired of averting the catastrophe that was to come. What was she to do?—say something to deceive this man and keep him waiting until she had seen and prepared her sister?
The task was hateful to her in the extreme; and it seemed as if her life was to be made up of subterfuges and concealments, all of which caused reflections upon her.
“You love May still?” she said at last.
“Love her still!” he cried, with all the impassioned manner of a young Italian. “I tell you it has been desolation to be separated from her all this time; but it was our hard fate, and I have suffered, as she has, poor child. But the thought of seeing her again has comforted me, and I have waited, oh, so patiently, till I could come to her again. Now, tell me, good sister, I must see her—quick—at once.”
“No,” cried Claire, “it is impossible. You must wait.”
“Wait?—I?—wait?”
“Yes,” said Claire desperately; and there was so much firmness and decision in her tone that the weak, impassioned young Italian was mastered, and yielded to her will.
“Not long, sweet sister, not for long?”
“No, not for long,” said Claire excitedly. “It is for May’s sake. You would not wish to harm her?”
“I? Harm her? Heaven! no. I would die for her,” cried the young man enthusiastically. “You little think how we love.”
“Then wait till I have seen, and broken the news to her.”
“Broken the news, when my arms are throbbing to embrace her once more?”
“Go to where you are staying, and wait patiently till you hear from me or from May, arranging for an interview.”
“Go?—and wait?”
“Yes,” cried Claire; “for May’s sake.”
“I? Go and wait!” sighed the young man. “Well, it is for her. But the old father? Let me stay and embrace him, and tell him how rich I am, and of my joy. He was always kind to me, even when I was so poor.”
“Impossible!” cried Claire, trembling for fear that her father should return.
“Impossible? Well, I will go. Addio—addio. I shall be at the hotel. You will hasten to her, sweet sister, and tell her my heart has been always filled with her sweet image; that her dear face is in a dozen pictures that I have painted in Rome. You will tell her this?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Claire desperately. “I will go and tell her you are here.”
“Addio, cara mia!” he said, as he bent over and tenderly kissed her hands, and then her cheek. “Addio, sweet sister, I am dying till I once more hold her in these arms.”
Claire led him to the door, as if she were in a dream; and, as she listened to his departing steps, her hands involuntarily clasped her throbbing head, and Isaac confided to his fellow-servants the information that there were strange goings-on in that house, and that when he liked to speak—well, they would see.
“What shall I do?”
Volume Two—Chapter Thirty One.
Claire Takes Steps: so does May.
“What shall I do?”
The low wild cry of agony that escaped from Claire Denville’s breast was heard by none, as she stood motionless, listening to Louis Gravani’s steps till they died away.
Then, trembling violently in an agony of terror and despair, she rushed up to her bedroom, and threw herself upon her knees, with her hands still clasping her temples.
What should she do? To whom could she go for help and counsel? Mrs Barclay? Impossible! Cora Dean! No, no: she could not tell her! Her father? She shivered at the thought. It would nearly kill him. He believed so in poor, weak, childish May. She could not—she dared not tell him.
If she had only gone to him at once and shared her secret with him when May had confessed her marriage, and told her about the little child, how easy all this would have been now!
No! Would it? The complication was too dreadful.
Claire knelt there with her brain swimming, and the confusion in her mind growing moment by moment worse.
She wanted to think clearly—to plan out some way of averting a horrible exposure from their family; and, as she strove, the thought came upon her with crushing force that she was sinking into a miserable schemer—one who was growing lower in the sight of all she knew.
She pressed her hands over her eyes, but she could not shut out Richard Linnell’s face, and his stern, grave looks, that seemed to read her through and through, keeping her back from acting some fresh deceit, when something was spurring her on to try and save poor weak May.
The horror of Lady Teigne’s death: the suspicion of her having made an assignation with Sir Harry Payne; the supposed elopement with Major Rockley—all these clinging to her and lowering her in the sight of the world. There were those, too, who had noted her visits to the fisherman’s cottage.
It was terrible—one hideous confusion, to which this fresh trouble had come; and she asked herself, in the agony of her spirit, whether it would not be better to wait till the dark, soft night had fallen, and the tide was flowing, lapping, and whispering amongst the piles at the end of the pier. She had but to walk quietly down unseen—to descend those steps, and let the cool, soft wave take her to its breast and bear her away, lulling her to the easy, sweet rest of oblivion.
And May?
She started to her feet at the thought.
And Richard Linnell?
He would go on believing ill of her, and she would never stand up before him, listening as he asked her forgiveness for every doubt, never to be her husband, but ready then to look up to her as all that was pure and true.
May! She must save May. How, she knew not, but she must go to her. Something must be done.
Hurriedly dressing, she went out, and walked swiftly to her brother-in-law’s house, where the servant admitted her with no great show of respect, and she was shown into the drawing-room.
“I’ll tell my mistress you are here,” said the footman; and he went out, closing the door behind him rather loudly.
The effect was to make a little man jump up from the couch where he had been sleeping, with a loud exclamation.
“What is it? Who the—. Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, what do you want?”
“I came—I called to see May, Frank dear,” said Claire, trembling.
“Well, then, I just wish you wouldn’t,” he said testily. “It’s bad enough to have to bear the relationship, without having you come here.”
“Frank!—dear Frank!”
“There, don’t ‘dear Frank’ me. I should have thought, after what had occurred, you would have been ashamed to show your face here again.”
“Frank dear, we are brother and sister; for pity’s sake, spare me. Is it the duty of a gentleman to speak to me like this?”
She looked at him with a pitying dread in her eyes, as she thought of the horror hanging over his house. His allusions were keen enough, but they were blunt arrows compared to the bolts that threatened to fall upon his home; and, in her desire to shield him and his wife, if possible, from some of the suffering that must come, she scarcely felt their points.
“Gentleman, eh? You behave like a lady, don’t you? Nice position we hold in society through you and the old man, don’t we? I’ll be off abroad, that’s what I’ll do, and take May away from the old connection.”
“Yes, do!” cried Claire excitedly. “Do, Frank, at once. No, no; you must not do that.—Heaven help me! What am I saying?” she sighed to herself.
“Best thing to do,” said Burnett. “Shouldn’t have you always coming in then.”
“Frank dear,” said Claire deprecatingly, “I have not been to see May since—”
“You disgraced yourself on the night of the party,” he said brutally.
“Frank!”
“Oh, come: it’s of no use to ride the high horse with me, my lady. I’m not a fool. I repeat it: you haven’t been since the night you disgraced us by inviting that little blackguard, Harry Payne, to see you; and it would have been better if you had not come now.”
Claire winced as if she were being lashed, but she uttered no word of complaint. It was her fate, she told herself, to suffer for others, and she was ready to play the social martyr’s part, and save May and Burnett if she could.
As she debated in her mind whether Burnett had not proposed the solution of the difficulty in taking her sister away, the thought was crushed by the recollection that May was Gravani’s wife, and that she would be saved and made happier could she leave with him.
Then the feeling came that all this was madness, and the position hopeless, and she said imploringly:
“Let me see May, Frank.”
“What do you want with her? To beg for more money? You’ve kept her short enough lately.”
“Frank! indeed—”
“No lies, please,” he cried. “I know you’ve had at least a guinea a week from her for long enough past.”
It was true, but the money was for Gravani’s child; and Claire’s face grew hollow and old-looking as she felt that she dared not defend herself.
“I suppose you have come for more money, haven’t you?” said Burnett spitefully.
“No—indeed no!” cried Claire.
“I do not believe you,” he said brutally; “and—”
“Ah, Claire, you here!” said May, rustling into the room, all silk, and scent, and flowers.
“Yes, she’s here,” said Burnett; “and the sooner she’s gone the better. I’m going out.”
“Very well, dear,” said May. “But don’t pout and frown like that at his little frightened wife.”
“Get out!” said Burnett, “and don’t be a fool before people.”
He shook her off as he said this, and strutted towards the door, where he turned with a sneering grin upon his face.
“I say,” he cried, “I didn’t give you any money when you asked me this morning.”
“No, dear, you didn’t. Give me some now, before you go. Don’t go out and leave me without.”
“Not a shilling!” he cried, with an unpleasant cackling laugh.
May stood with the pretty smile upon her face, a strange contrast to the pained classic sorrow upon her sister’s better-formed features, amid perfect silence, till the front door closed, and Frank Burnett’s strutting step was heard on the shingle walk leading to the gate, when a change came over the bright, flower-like countenance, which was convulsed with anger in miniature.
“Ugh! Little contemptible wretch!” she exclaimed. “How I do hate you! Claire, I shall end by running away from the little miserable ape, if I don’t make up my mind to kill him. Ah!”
She ended with an ejaculation full of pain, and turned a wondering, childish look of reproach on her sister, for Claire had crossed to her, and suddenly grasped her wrist.
“Silence, May!” she cried.
“Oh, don’t!” said May, wresting herself free, and stamping her foot like a fretful, angry child. “And if you’ve come here to do nothing but scold me and find fault, you’d better go.”
“May—May! Listen to me.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll go up to my own room and cry my eyes out. You don’t know; you can’t imagine what a little wretch he is. I wish you were married to him instead of me.”
“May!”
“I won’t listen,” cried the foolish little woman, stopping her ears. “You bully me for caring for Sir Harry Payne, who is all that is tender and loving; and I’m tied to that hateful little wretch for life, and he makes my very existence a curse.”
“May, will you listen?”
“I can see you are scolding me, but I can’t hear a word you say, and I won’t listen. Oh, I do wish you were married to him instead of me.”
“I wish to heaven I were!” cried Claire solemnly.
“What?” cried May, the stopping of whose ears seemed now to be very ineffective. “You wish you were married to the little mean-spirited, insignificant wretch?”
“Yes,” said Claire excitedly, “for then you would be free.”
“What do you mean by that, Claire?”
“Did you not tell me that Louis Gravani was dead?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“Why did you tell me that?”
“Because he went to Rome or Florence—I am not sure which—and caught a fever and died.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, dear, he never wrote and told me he was dead, of course,” said May with a little laugh, “but he told me he had caught the fever, and he never wrote to me any more, so, of course, he died.”
“And, without knowing for certain, you married Frank Burnett?”
“Don’t talk in that way, dear. It’s just like the actress at Drury Lane, where Frank took me. You would make a fortune on the stage. What do you mean, looking at me so tragically?”
“May, prepare yourself for terrible news.”
“Oh, Claire! Is poor, dear papa dead?”
“May, Louis Gravani is alive.”
“Alive? Oh, I am so glad!” she cried, clapping her hands. “Poor, dear little Louis! How he did love me! Then he isn’t dead, after all, and I’m his wife, and not Frank’s. Oh, what fun!”
Claire caught at the back of a chair, and stood gazing wildly at her sister, utterly stunned by her childish unthinking manner.
“May—May!” she cried bitterly; “your sin is finding you out.”
“Sin? How absurd you are! Why, what sin have I committed?”
“That clandestine marriage, May.”
“Now what nonsense, dear. It wasn’t my fault, as I told you before. You don’t know what love is. I do, and I loved poor, dear little Louis. I couldn’t help it, and he made me marry him.”
“Oh, May, May!”
“I tell you, I was obliged to marry him. One can’t do as one likes, when one loves. You’ll know that some day. But, I am glad.”
“May!” cried Claire reproachfully.
“So I am. Why, he’ll come and fetch me away from my miserable tyrant, and we can have little pet blossom away from Fisherman Dick’s, and take a cottage somewhere, and then I can sing and play to baby, while dear old Louis reads the Italian poets to me, and goes on with his painting.”
A piteous sigh escaped from Claire Denville’s lips as she fervently breathed in wild appeal:
“My God, help me!” And then—“It is too hard—too hard. What shall I do?”
A change came over the scene. The picture May Burnett had painted dissolved in the thin air, and she turned quickly upon her sister.
“How do you know this, Claire? Has Louis written to you?”
“No. He is here.”
“Here! In Saltinville?”
“Yes, here in Saltinville. He would have been at this house, only I prevailed upon him to stay till I had seen you—to prepare you.”
“Oh, Claire! Does he know I am married?”
“No; he believes you have been as faithful to him as he to you.”
“Oh!”
It was a wild cry; and a look of frightened horror came over the pretty baby face, as its owner caught Claire round the waist, and clung to her.
“Claire, Claire!” she cried. “Save me! What shall I do? Louis is an Italian, and he is all love and passion and jealousy. I dare not see him. He would kill me, if he knew. What shall I do? What can I do? Oh, this is terrible, Claire!” she cried. “Claire!” and she shook her sister passionately. “Why don’t you speak? What shall I do?”
Claire remained silent.
“Why don’t you speak, I say?” cried May with childish petulance.
“I am praying for help and guidance, sister, for I do not know.”
May let herself sink down upon the carpet with her hands clasped, as she gazed straight at her sister, looking to her for advice and help, while Claire remained with her eyes fixed, deeply pondering upon their terrible position.
“I can only think of one thing,” she said at last. “I must see Louis Gravani, and tell him all.”
“No, no; I tell you he will kill me.”
“He loves you, May; and I must appeal to him to act like a gentleman in this terrible strait.”
“Don’t I tell you that he is a passionate Italian, and that he would kill me. He always used to say that he felt as if he could stab anybody who came between us. Oh, Claire, what shall I do? My poor life’s full of miserable troubles. I wish I were dead.”
“Hush, May, and try and help me, instead of acting in this childish way.”
“There, now you turn against me.”
“No, no, my poor sister. I want to help you, and give you strength.”
“Then you will help me, Claire?”
“Help you!” said Claire reproachfully. “Did I spare my poor reputation for your sake?”
“Oh, don’t talk of that now, only tell me, what shall I do?”
“You must come with me.”
“With you, dear? Where?”
“Home, to your father’s roof; and we must tell him all. He will protect you.”
“Come—home—tell poor papa? No—no—no, I cannot—I dare not.”
“You must, May. It were a shame and disgrace to stay here, now that you know your husband is alive.”
“My first husband, Claire dear,” said May pitifully.
“Oh, hush, May; you’ll drive me mad. There, go and dress yourself, and come home.”
“I will not—I daren’t,” cried May; “and, besides, this is my home.”
“And Louis? Am I to tell him where you are?”
“No, no. I tell you he would kill me. I must have time to think. Didn’t you tell me he was going to wait, Claire? Look here, I dare not see him. No, everything is over between us. You must see him, dear.”
“See him?” said Claire.
“Yes, dear, yes. Oh, Claire, Claire!” she cried wildly, going upon her knees to her sister, “pray—pray, save me. Tell Louis I am not married to Frank. Tell him he must go away, and not come back till I write to him.”
“May, how can you be so childish?” cried Claire piteously.
“I am not childish. This is not childish. I know—I know—tell him this, and he will go away.”
“Tell him this?”
“Yes, yes; don’t you understand? He is very stupid; tell him I am dead.”
“May!”
“Stop a moment; you said he was going to wait.”
“Till I can give him news of you.”
“Yes; then you must keep him quiet for a day or two, till I have had time to think.”
“There is no time.”
“Give me till to-morrow, Claire. Don’t you see I am all confused, and mad with grief?”
“Till to-morrow?” said Claire, gazing at her, for it was like a respite to her as well, in her horrible doubt and confusion of intellect.
“Yes, till to-morrow. I will shut myself up in my room till then, and try and think out what will be best. There, go now. I can’t talk to you; I can’t think; I can’t do anything till you are gone; and I must have time.”
Claire left her at last unwillingly, but with the understanding that May was to stay in her own room till the next day, and await her return.
“It will all come right at last, Claire,” said May, at parting. “It always does, dear. There, don’t fidget. It’s very tiresome of him to come now; but I don’t know: perhaps it’s all for the best.”
She kissed Claire affectionately at parting; and the latter sighed as she hurried home, struggling with herself as to how she should make all this known to her father.
“He must know,” she said; and she entered the dining-room at once, to find that he was absent, though he had been home while she was away.
“Master said he had some business to transact, ma’am, and would have a chop at the Assembly Rooms. You were not to wait dinner.”
Claire went to her own room to think.
May had, in accordance with her promise, gone to hers; then she had written a brief note, ordered the carriage, and gone for a drive, closely veiled. One of her calls was at Miss Clode’s, where she entrusted her note, not to some volume to be sold, but to Miss Clode’s round-eyed, plump-cheeked niece, who promised to deliver it at once.