The Master of the Ceremonies Part 112

"Silence, hypocrite! Enough of this. I could not speak. I dare not tell the world the murderer was my own son."

Fred Denville drew himself erect. His father rose from the bed, and the two men stood gazing for some minutes in each other's eyes without a word.

It was the Master of the Ceremonies who broke the spell.

"Now," he said, "I have spoken. It is enough. Your secret is safe with me. Go. Repent, but do not ask me to forgive you. Ask that of Heaven.

I am old and broken, and can die."

"But, father!" groaned Fred wildly, "it was not I."

"It was my eldest son. I saw him as he struggled with me--in his uniform, and I picked up afterwards from the floor his knife--his pocket-knife that had been used to wrench open the casket of jewels.

The knife with 'RM' on the handle. It was given to my son by the fisherman, Miggles."

"Yes, d.i.c.k gave me that knife years ago," said Fred, speaking like one who has received a tremendous blow. "I have not seen it since that night."

"No," said the old man bitterly; "it lies far out beyond the end of the pier, buried deep in sand by now."

Fred Denville stood holding his hands pressed to his head, staring straight before him at the whitewashed wall, while neither spoke.

The silence was broken by the rattling of bolts and the turning of a key, when the gaoler threw open the door, and, without a word, the dragoon walked, or rather reeled, from the cell, as if he had taken strong drink till his senses were nearly gone.

Volume Three, Chapter XVI.

BLOW FOR BLOW.

Fred Denville went straight to Barclay's, and was admitted, Claire looking at him reproachfully as he threw himself into a chair.

"Oh, Fred!" she cried, "and at such a time!"

"Not been drinking," he said; "not been drinking. How's May?"

"Very ill, dear," said Claire sadly. "Here?"

"Yes, Mrs Barclay insisted upon her being brought, so that we could be together."

"G.o.d bless her," said Fred softly. Then, after a pause--"I've seen the old man."

"And you are friends, Fred?"

He shook his head, and sat staring down at the carpet. "But you tried to be, dear?"

"Yes; tried hard. I've been. I've done my duty--for once," he said with a strange laugh.

He did not speak again for a few minutes, and Claire sat holding his hand, looking at him doubtingly, his manner was so strange.

"You think I've been drinking," he cried fiercely. "Give a dog a bad name, and then hang him. I haven't touched a drop to-day."

He changed his manner to her directly, and his voice was low and tender as he took her to his breast and kissed her.

"Poor little Clairy," he said; "you've had a rough time. Never mind; brighter days coming. The old man will be found innocent."

"Innocent, Fred?" she faltered.

"Yes, innocent," he cried. "Wait: you will see. Clairy, look here.

Tell me this. Did I ever talk about Lady Teigne's jewels when I came to see you?"

"I don't know, dear. Yes, I remember now, I think you did."

"Hah!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "I must go now. Good-bye, little woman. I always loved my little sister, always. You know that, don't you, Clairy?"

"Yes, dear Fred, always."

"Bad as I was?"

"Oh, Fred, I never thought you bad," cried Claire piteously. "I only thought it was a pity you did not try to raise yourself, and--"

"Leave the drink alone. Quite right, Clairy. It was the drink. It makes a man stupid and mad. He doesn't know what he's about when he has taken too much. Remember that, my dear, it was the drink."

"Fred, how strangely you are talking."

"Strangely?" he said, clasping her to his breast, "strangely? Well, I meant to be kind and tender to my poor, suffering little sister. I've been a bad lot, but I always loved my little Claire."

She stood gazing wonderingly after him, he seemed so strange in his way, as, after straining her to his breast, he kissed her pa.s.sionately again and again, and then turned and literally ran from the room, while, as she placed her hand against her face, she found that it was wet.

"Poor Fred," she said, "if I could only win him from his ways."

She said no more, for her thoughts were only too ready to turn to their usual theme--her father and his imprisonment, and she sat down to rest her aching head upon her hand, wondering what had pa.s.sed during the interview within the prison walls.

Fred Denville found Mr and Mrs Barclay below, and in a quick, agitated way he caught Mrs Barclay's hand.

"It's very kind of you to let me call upon my sister," he said, "seeing what I am. I thank you. I am not coming again."

"Not coming again? Oh, I'm sure you're welcome enough, Mr Fred, for your sister's sake," said Mrs Barclay, "isn't he, Jo-si-ah?"

"Of course, of course."

"Thank you--both of you," cried Fred hastily. "You are very good, and that's why I say be kind to my poor sisters, and try and comfort both if anything happens."

"Oh, but we must not let anything happen," said Barclay. "The poor old gentleman must be saved."

"Yes, of course," said Fred dreamily; "he must be saved. He's innocent enough, poor old fellow. I did not mean that. You'll take care of the poor girls, won't you?"

"Why, of course we will, Mr Fred Denville; of course we will. There, don't you make yourself uneasy about them."

"I won't," said Fred, in his bluff, straightforward way. "I may be quite happy, then, about Claire?"

"To be sure you may."

"I shouldn't like her to suffer any more, and it would be terrible for those wretched dandy scoundrels to get hold of her and break her heart."