Kitabı oku: «The Master of the Ceremonies», sayfa 32
Volume Three – Chapter Twenty.
Under Pressure
“Father, I am nearly mad with grief and horror. I come to you for help – for comfort. What shall I do?” cried Claire, sinking upon her knees before him on her next visit to the prison.
“What comfort can I give you, child?”
“Oh, father, dear father, were not our sufferings enough that this other trouble should come upon us? Fred – ”
“Yes, tell me of him,” cried the old man excitedly. “Is he very bad?”
“Dangerously wounded, father. And this story of his! They believe it, father; what shall I do?”
“Do, my child?”
“They will take him and punish him for the crime. I fear they will, for he persists that it was he.”
“And you would save him and let me die,” said the old man bitterly.
“No, no. Don’t, pray don’t, speak like that, father. Think of what I must feel. I’d lay down my life to save you both, but it seems so horrible that my brother should die for that of which he is innocent.”
The old man wrested himself from her grasp, and paced the cell like some caged wild creature, seeking to be free.
“I cannot bear it,” he exclaimed. “Heaven help me for a wretched weak man. Why has this complication come to tempt me? Claire, I would have died – without a murmur, without a word, but this dangling before me the means of escape is too much. Yesterday, I did not fear death. To-day, I am a coward. I see before me the hideous beam, the noosed rope, the executioner, and the hooting crowd, hungry to see me strangled to death, and I fear it, I tell you, for the hope of life has begun to burn strongly again now that Fred has spoken as he has.”
“Father!”
“Yes; you shrink from me, but you do not know. Claire, I speak to you as I could speak to none else, for you have known so much from the beginning. You know how I have suffered.”
“Yes, yes,” she said mournfully.
“You know how I have shrunk and writhed in spirit to see you loathe me as you have, and look upon me as something unutterably base and vile. Have I not suffered a very martyrdom?”
“Yes, father, yes,” sighed Claire.
“And heaven knows I would not have spoken. I would have gone boldly to the scaffold, and died, a sacrifice for another’s crime. But now that he has confessed – now that he denounces himself, and I see life before me once again, the desire to live comes so strongly to this poor weak creature that my lips seem to be unsealed, and I must – I must have your love, Claire, as of old.”
“Father!” cried Claire with a horrified look, as if she doubted his reason.
“Yes, you are startled; you wonder at me, but, Claire, my child, had I gone to the gallows it would have been as a martyr, as a father dying for his son’s crime. Claire, my child, I am an innocent man.”
“Father!”
“Yes,” he cried, “innocent. You never had cause to shrink from me; and while a thousand times you wrung my heart, I said to myself, ‘You must bear it. You cannot retain her love and win your safety by accusing your son.’”
“Father, you rave,” cried Claire. “This hope of escape has made you grasp at poor Fred’s weak self-accusation. You would save yourself at the expense of the life of your own child.”
“Did I accuse him of the murder, Claire?”
“No, not till now; and oh, father, it is monstrous.”
“Did he not accuse himself, stung by conscience after seeing me here?”
“It is not true. He could not have done such a thing.”
“Indeed!” said Denville bitterly; “and yet I saw him leave the bedside, and stand with the jewel-casket in his hand. I say so to you, for I cannot bear it, child. Let them kill me if they will. Let them save my son; but let me, my child, let me go to my grave with the knowledge that you believe me true and innocent, and that I bore all that my son might live.”
“Then you will not denounce him?”
“I? To save myself! No, though I would live. You do not believe me innocent, my child. You think me a murderer.”
“Father, I believe you were beside yourself with your troubles, and that you were going to take those jewels when you were interrupted, and, in a fit of madness, did this deed to save yourself and children from disgrace.”
“Claire, Claire,” groaned the old man, “if you – if you only could have believed in me, I could have borne all, but you turn from me. Will you not believe in me? Have you not realised my self-sacrifice?”
“Oh, father, what can I say – what can I do?” cried Claire. “Do you not see my position? Can I think of my poor brother now as the guilty man?”
“No,” he said, taking her in his arms, and trying to soothe her in her agonised grief; “it is too much to ask you, my child. It is too much for such a one as you to be called upon to even think of. I will not press you, Claire; neither will I ask you to forgive me. I could not do that now. Only try to think of me as innocent. I ask you once more, my darling; I ask you once more.”
Claire threw her arms round his neck and drew his head down to her bosom.
“I am your child,” she whispered softly. “Father dear, good-bye – good-bye.”
“So soon?” muttered Denville. “Yes; good-bye – good-bye.”
He held her hand till she was half through the door; and then, as it was closed, he tottered back to his seat, and once more sank down to bury his face within his hands.
Volume Three – Chapter Twenty One.
From Prison to Prison
“Morton,” said Claire hoarsely, as she returned to where her brother was waiting, “are you still strong at heart?”
“Strong? Yes,” he cried. “What do you want me to do?”
“Take me to Fred.”
The young officer started, but he drew a long breath and rose erect.
“Come along,” he said. “Colonel Lascelles will give me an order to see him. But, Claire darling, can you bear to meet him now?”
“My own brother? Morton, could I stay away from you if sickness or a wound had laid you low?”
“Come,” he said abruptly; and, taking her arm, he led her along the parade on their way towards the barracks.
Before they had gone far Morton’s cheeks flushed, for he saw Lord Carboro’ approaching, and he felt ready to turn out of the way.
“He will cut us dead,” thought Morton. “We are disgraced for ever.”
To his surprise, as they drew near, Lord Carboro’ took off his hat, and held it in his hand, bowing low to Claire as she passed him.
Fifty yards further they encountered Richard Linnell and Mellersh, who, without having seen Lord Carboro’s act, imitated it exactly, and drew aside to let them pass.
Morton felt his heart throb with pleasure. He had expected those who knew them to treat them slightingly, and his sister was being treated with the deference due to a queen, while he was receiving respect such as had never been paid to him before.
He held his head the higher, and gaining in confidence walked boldly on, proud of the closely-veiled figure at his side, as Claire drooped over his arm; but, as he drew nearer to the barracks, he felt a curious tremor attacking him, and it needed all his strength of mind to keep up and face his brethren of the mess.
Claire shrank more and more as they entered the gates and crossed the barrack-yard, but Morton had screwed himself up to the sticking point, and he would have died sooner than have turned tail now.
Dragoon after dragoon saluted him, and he caught sight of Sir Harry Payne, but that officer had the grace to turn off, and they reached the Colonel’s quarters without an unpleasant encounter.
They were shown in at once, and without taking chairs Morton stood defiant and proud awaiting the entrance of the Colonel, and supporting his sister.
They were not kept waiting long before the Colonel entered, Morton meeting his eyes with a fiercely independent look.
He was armed against an unarmed man, for the old Colonel’s first act was to place a chair for Claire, bowing to her with chivalrous deference, while directly after, in place of treating his subaltern with freezing distance, he held out his hand and shook Morton’s warmly.
The young officer had truly said that he was only a boy, for this kindly act and the old Colonel’s sympathetic look threw him off his balance, and his lip began to quiver and his face to change.
“You’ve come to ask for a pass to see your brother, Denville,” said Colonel Lascelles. “Yes, of course, of course. Very sad – very painful business, my dear lad. No fault of yours, of course. Don’t scruple to ask me for any assistance I can give you, my dear boy. As far as my duty will allow me, you can count upon me. There: that’s it,” he said, blotting a sheet of paper, and handing it promptly to the young officer, while he chivalrously refrained from even glancing at the sorrow-burdened figure at his side.
“By-the-way, Denville,” he whispered, calling the young fellow aside, “you can take what leave you like now.”
The flush came back to Morton’s face, and he was drawing himself up, but the Colonel took one hand, while he laid his left upon the lad’s shoulder.
“No, no, no: I don’t mean that, my dear boy. You have behaved uncommonly well, and I never respected you half so much as I do now. No gentleman in the regiment, I am sure, will think otherwise than I do. Yours is a very painful position, Denville, and, believe me, you have my sympathy from my heart.”
Morton grasped his hand firmly, and then hurried away, for he could not trust himself to speak.
Another encounter had to be gone through, though, and that was with a tall, dark officer who came upon them suddenly.
Morton flushed up again as he felt Claire start, and saw Rockley stop suddenly, as if about to speak eagerly to the shrinking girl; but he found Morton’s eyes fixed upon him, and returning the look with an angry scowl he passed on.
A minute later and they were in the infirmary, where, looking white and pinched of aspect, Fred Denville lay, with a regimental nurse at his side.
The man rose, and left the side of the bed, for Claire to take his seat.
“He is to be kept very quiet, ma’am. Doctor’s orders,” said the man respectfully. “I shall be just outside if you want anything.”
Fred was lying with his eyes half closed, but he heard the voice and opened them, recognised his visitors, and tried to raise his hand, but it fell back upon the coverlid.
“Claire?” he said in a voice little above a whisper. “An officer?”
He smiled sadly, and then seemed half choked by a sob, as Claire threw herself on her knees by him and Morton went to the other side, bent over, and laid his hand upon that lying helpless upon the coverlid.
“Fred, old fellow,” said Morton in a husky voice.
He could say no more, but stood looking down upon the prostrate figure, awe-stricken at the ravages caused by the wound.
“Fred – dearest Fred,” whispered Claire, kissing the hand she held.
The wounded man groaned.
“No, no,” he said faintly. “You should not be here; I am no fit company for you now.”
“Oh, Fred, dear Fred,” cried Claire passionately, “how could you charge yourself with that dreadful crime?”
“How?” he said faintly. “Because it must have been true. The poor old man saw me there, and found my knife upon the carpet.”
“It is impossible,” sobbed Claire.
“I thought so once,” replied the wounded man, “but I suppose it’s true. I often used to think of the old woman’s jewels, and how useful they’d be. It seemed so easy, too, the way up there – eh, Morton?”
“Yes, yes; but don’t talk like that. Some scoundrel must have seen me climb up, and have gone there that night.”
“Yes,” said Fred feebly, “some scoundrel who knew the way, but who, in his drunkenness, did not know what he did, and that scoundrel was I.”
“No, no, Fred!” cried Claire.
“If you did it,” said Morton quickly, “what became of the diamonds?”
“The diamonds, lad?”
“Yes. Did you have the jewels and sell them?”
“Never a stone,” said Fred slowly. “No, it’s all like a cloud. It always is like a cloud over my mind when I’ve been having the cursed drink. It sends me mad.”
Claire gazed at him wildly.
“You ought not to be here, Clairy. Take her away, lad. I’m no fit company for her. But tell me – the old man? They have set him free?”
“No, not yet,” said Morton sadly.
“But he must be set free at once. Poor, weak old fellow! He has suffered enough. Morton, lad, go to him and try to get him out. Him kill the old woman? He hadn’t it in him.”
Fred Denville turned so faint that he seemed to be losing his senses, but Claire bathed his face, and he recovered and smiled up at her.
“It’s hard work to tell you to go, Clairy dear, but you mustn’t stay here. Say one kind word to me, though, my dear; I haven’t had much to do with kindness since I left home. I’m sorry I disgraced you all so. Ask the old man to forgive me, and tell him I should like to shake hands with him once, just once, before it’s all over.”
“Fred, my dear brother,” whispered Claire, pressing his hand to her breast, while Morton held the other.
“Ah!” sighed the wounded man, “that’s better. Morton, lad, it will soon be over, and people forget these things in a few days. I’m only in the way. I always have been. You’ll get on better when I’m gone.”
“Hush, Fred!”
He turned his head to Claire, who was gazing at him with burning eyes that seemed drained of the last tears.
“You always were a good, true girl to me, Clairy,” he whispered faintly, “and I want you to think well of me when I’m gone. I did this horrid thing, but I swear I have no recollection of it, and I never reaped a shilling advantage from the theft.”
The same feeling animated father and son in this time of peril – the desire to stand well in the eyes of Claire, who seemed to them as the whole world.
“Think the best you can of me, my little girl,” he whispered. “It will soon be over, and – there’s one comfort – I shall die as a soldier should – do you hear, Morton? No hangman’s rope to disgrace us more. I fell under fire, my lad, and I shall laugh at the judges, and prison, and scaffold and all.”
“Hush! for heaven’s sake, Fred!” cried Morton.
“Yes, I will. It’s too much – to talk. I was in a rage with them for shooting me. It was that bully – Bray; but I forgive him, for it saves us all from trouble and disgrace. Morton, lad, don’t stop in the regiment. Exchange – do you hear? Exchange, and get them away – Claire and May and the old man – to somewhere else when I’m dead.”
“Fred! Brother!” wailed Claire.
He smiled at her, and tried to raise her hand to his cheek.
“Yes, little girl!” he said tenderly. “It’s quite right. Cuts the knot – the hangman’s knot.”
There was a bitter, decisive tone in these last words, but he changed his manner again directly, and spoke gently and tenderly.
“It is no use to hide it, dear sis,” he said. “I can’t live above a day or two. I know I shall not, and you see it is for the best. It saves the old man, and much of the disgrace to you two. Poor old fellow! I never understood him, Clairy, as I should. Under all that sham and fashionable show he tried hard for us. God bless him! he’s a hero.”
“Fred, Fred, you are breaking my heart,” wailed Claire.
“No, no, little one,” said Fred, a nervous accession of strength enabling him to speak out clearly and firmly now. “You must be strong and brave. You will see afterwards that it was all for the best, and that I am of some good to you all at last. Try and be strong and look at it all as a blessing. Can you bring the old man here? Morton, lad, with my last breath I’ll pray that you may grow up as true and brave a fellow. Just think of it, you two – that night. He saw me in the room and escape, and he held his tongue to save me! Do you remember that day, Clairy, when he found me with you and attacked me as he did? I couldn’t understand it, then. Ah! it’s all plain enough, now. No wonder he hated me.”
“Fred, you must not talk,” said Morton.
“Not talk, lad?” said Fred with a sad smile. “I’ve not much more chance. Let me say a few words now.”
He lay silent though for a few moments, and his eyes closed as if glad of the rest; but at the end of a short space he began again in a half-wandering manner.
“Brave old fellow! Not a word. Even when they took him. Wouldn’t betray me because I was his own son. Tell Claire to tell him – some one tell him – I know why. It was because I was poor mother’s favourite – poor mother! How fond she was of me! The scapegrace. They always love the black sheep. Claire – fetch Claire.”
He uttered this wildly, and she bent over him, trembling.
“I am here, dear Fred.”
He stared at her without recognition for a few minutes, and then smiled at her lovingly.
“Only a bad headache, mother,” he said. “Better soon. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t mean to kill the old woman. I can’t remember doing it. What a time it is since I’ve seen you. But look here, mother. Mind Claire. That scoundrel Rockley! I know him. Stand at nothing. Mind poor Claire, and – ”
A spasm seemed to shoot through him, and he uttered a faint cry of agony as he knit his brow.
“Did you speak, dear?” he said huskily. “Have I been asleep?”
“I – I think so,” faltered Claire.
“Yes, I fell asleep. I was dreaming of the poor mother. Claire dear, it would have killed her to see me here like this. There, there, it’s all for the best. I want to sleep. Tell the old man he must come and forgive me before I go. Bring him, Morton, lad. No: you bring him, Claire. It will be pain to you, my child, but it is to help me. He will forgive me – brave, noble old fellow that he is – if you are standing by.”
The door opened, and the military nurse appeared.
“The doctor says that you must not stay longer now, ma’am,” he whispered.
“Quite right,” said Fred softly, and with the manner of one accustomed to yield to discipline. “Come again to-morrow – bring the old man to me – good-bye, dear, good-bye.”
He hardly turned his head to Morton, but feebly pressed the hand that held his. His eyes were fixed with a wild yearning on the sweet, tender face that bent over him, and then closed as he uttered a sigh of content with the long loving embrace that ensued.
Then, utterly prostrate, Morton led his sister from the room used as an infirmary, and across the barrack-yard to the gates where a carriage was in waiting.
Morton Denville was half stunned by the scene he had just witnessed, and moved as if mechanically, for he, young as he was, had read the truth in his brother’s face and felt that even if it were possible to obtain leave, he would not probably be able to get his father to the barracks in time.
It seemed quite a matter of course that a footman should be holding the door of this carriage open, and that the servant should draw back for them to enter, close it, and then mount behind, to shout over the roof, “Mr Barclay’s,” when the carriage was driven off. Morton Denville said little, and did not realise the chivalrous kindness of Lord Carboro’, in sending his carriage to fetch Claire back after her painful visit.
Claire saw absolutely nothing, half blind with weeping, her veil down over her face, and a blacker veil of despair closing her in on every side, as she fought and struggled with the thoughts that troubled her. She was utterly incapable of grasping what went on around her.
Now her father seemed to stand before her innocent, and her erring brother, the true culprit, having, as he had told her, committed the crime in a drunken fit. Now a change came over her, and she shuddered with horror as it seemed to her that the author of her being had made his crime hideously worse in trying to escape its consequences by charging his eldest born with the dreadful sin.
Her brain was in a whirl, and she could not think, only pray for oblivion – for rest – since her mental agony was too great to bear.
One minute she had been gazing on the pallid face of the brother whom she had loved so well; the next, darkness had fallen, and she barely realised the fact that she was handed into a carriage and driven off. All she felt was that there was a place against which she could lay her throbbing head, and that Morton was trying to whisper words of comfort in her ear.
Their departure was seen, though, by several.
Rockley, with a singularly uneasy look upon his dark, handsome face – dread, rage, and despairing love, shown there by turns – watched the brother and sister leave the barracks, cross the yard, and enter Lord Carboro’s carriage, and then uttered a furious oath as he saw them driven off.
Lord Carboro’ himself, too, was near at hand to see that his commands were executed without a hitch, and the old man went off thoughtfully down to the pier, to sit and watch the sea, snuff-box in one hand, clouded cane in the other.
“Poor old Denville!” he muttered softly; and then, below his breath, “Poor girl!”
Lastly, Richard Linnell and Mellersh saw Claire enter the old nobleman’s handsome chariot, and a curious grey look came over the younger man’s countenance like a shadow, as he stood watching the departure, motionless till the carriage had disappeared, when Mellersh took him by the arm —
“Come, Dick,” he whispered, “be a man.”
Linnell turned upon him fiercely.
“I do try,” he cried, “but at every turn there is something to tempt me with fresh doubts.”
