The Master of the Ceremonies Part 83

Claire was puzzled while for the moment she gazed at the att.i.tude of her visitor, whose long black hair fell over the collar of his tightly-b.u.t.toned surtout, as he stood with one hand resting upon his hip, the other holding his hat and ta.s.selled 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 impa.s.sioned 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, impa.s.sioned 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."