The Master of the Ceremonies Part 101

"Poor little wandering lamb! So weak and timid, and ready to go astray; but you are safe here with me. Oh, how wrong everything is!"

Claire glanced at him, half stunned by this new trouble; and, as her father talked of punishment, and the impossibility of a greater trouble than this befalling them, a cold hand seemed to clutch her heart, and a vague, black shadow of another horror came back with double force, she shuddered, and devoted herself more and more to her task of attending the sister sick apparently unto death.

As she sat there, with the shadow of death impending, after the first shock, it seemed to lose its terrors, and she found herself looking upon it as less dreadful than she had been wont to do. There was rest in it, and a cessation from the pain and suffering that had so long been her portion; and, as the hours rolled on, her throbbing brain grew dull and heavy, her own suffering lighter, and she seemed better able to attend to the sufferer at her side.

Towards noon there was a soft knock at the front door, and Isaac--who had been planning with Eliza an immediate flight from the grief-stricken house, on the ground that, even if they lost their wages, it was no longer a place for them to stay at--opened it, and told the visitor that Miss Denville could see no one.

"But me, young man," said the caller, quietly entering. "You need not say I'm here. I shall go up soon, and you have got to go on to my house for another basket like this, only bigger."

She patted the one she carried--one which she had crammed with such things as she thought would be useful at such a time.

Isaac gave way, allowed Mrs Barclay to go up to the drawing-room, and directly after called Eliza into his pantry to tell her that his mind was made up, and that they must go at once.

Mrs Barclay did not hesitate for a moment, but went softly up to the bedroom, tapped gently, and turned the handle to enter on tip-toe.

"I've only come to help, my dear," she said softly, as she clasped Claire in her arms. "We weren't quick enough, my dear," she whispered, "or we might have saved all this."

There was no reply, and after a time, in respect to Claire's wishes, Mrs Barclay went downstairs.

"I shall be there if you want me, my dear. Don't you go and think that you are left alone."

Mrs Barclay had hardly seated herself in the dining-room, and taken some rather grubby work from her pocket, when she heard a peculiar noise, and the b.u.mp of something being placed heavily upon the floor.

She listened, and heard some one ascend the stairs again, and there was a whispering, which ceased as the whisperers ascended, and then there was silence, and Mrs Barclay took a st.i.tch, and thought and wondered whether Cora Dean would come, or whether the Denvilles would be cut by everyone now.

Then she took another st.i.tch, and nibbed her nose, which itched.

"Poor little soul!" she said to herself, "it's come home to her at last.

I never thought any good of her, but I'm not one to go on punis.h.i.+ng those who've done wrong."

Mrs Barclay took another st.i.tch and began to think again.

"Jo-si-ah says if they catch the little Italian fellow, he'll be transported for life, and if poor little Mrs Burnett dies, they'll hang him. Well, I don't hold with hanging people, so I hope she won't die."

She took another st.i.tch and drew the thread through very slowly.

"Jo-si-ah says Sir Harry isn't very bad, and the constable and a magistrate have been to see him, but he says he knows nothing hardly about it. Poor Claire! What a house this is! What trouble!"

She took another st.i.tch.

"I wonder whether Richard Linnell will come. I shall begin to hate him if he doesn't stand by the poor girl in her distress. He's a poor s.h.i.+lly-shally sort of a fellow, or he'd believe in her as I do."

There was quite a vicious st.i.tch here.

"Perhaps, it isn't his fault. She kept him at a distance terribly, and no wonder with the troubles she's had; but of course he can't understand all that, being impetuous, like my Jo-si-ah was, and I dessay it will all come right at last. Now, what are they lumping down the stairs, making a noise, and that poor child so ill?"

She threw her work on the table, got up softly, and, just as there was a fresh b.u.mp and a whispering, she opened the door to find Isaac and Eliza standing over a box which they had just set down in the pa.s.sage beside another, while Isaac in plain clothes and Eliza with her bonnet in her hand started at seeing the visitor.

"Why, highty-tighty, who's going away?" cried Mrs Barclay wonderingly.

Eliza glanced at Isaac, who cleared his throat.

"The fact is, ma'am, this young person and I have come to the conclusion that seeing how we suffered from arrears, and what goings on there are here, Mr Denville's isn't the service in which we care to stop any longer."

"Oh," said Mrs Barclay; "and have you told Mr Denville you are going?"

"Well, ma'am; no, ma'am. We have thought it is not necessary under the circ.u.mstances, and--"

"Nor yet, Miss Claire?"

"No, ma'am; she is too busy."

"Then just you take those boxes up again, young man, and take off that finery, and put on your livery," said Mrs Barclay in a low angry voice.

"Now, no words. You do as I say--there take those boxes up."

The tone of voice, manner, and a hint about the wages had their effect.

Isaac and Eliza glanced at each other, and took the boxes away without a word, Isaac coming back in livery a quarter of an hour later to tell Mrs Barclay that "that soldier" was at the back door.

Mrs Barclay started and followed Isaac, to stare in wonder at the fine soldierly young fellow, who eagerly asked her a score of questions about Claire and May, and, declining to be questioned in turn, hurried away with troubled mien.

Volume Three, Chapter IX.

MAY BEGINS TO SEE.

"Claire."

It was the faintest whisper of a call, but she to whom it was addressed heard it, and leaned over the bed to lay a cool hand upon the little wistful face looking up from the pillow.

"How long have I been lying here, Claire?"

"Hush, dear; don't talk," said Claire tenderly, "you are still so weak."

"Yes, but I must know. If you do not answer my questions, I shall fret and die sooner than I should do if you told me."

"Six weeks, dear."

"Six weeks!" sighed May; "and it seems like a dream. Since I seemed to wake up the day before yesterday, I have been thinking about it all, and I recollect everything now."

She spoke with perfect calmness, and as she went on, Claire's brow wrinkled.

"Poor old dad! How fond he is of me, and how ready to forgive me," she went on quietly. "Has Frank Burnett been?"

Claire shook her head.

"Not once?"

"No."