Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.
From Parade to Prison.
Sunken of eye, hollow of cheek, with the silvery stubble of many days’ growth upon his chin, glistening in the bar of light that came through the grated window, Stuart Denville, Master of the Ceremonies at Saltinville, high-priest to the votaries of fashion who worshipped at that seaside shrine, sat upon his truckle bed, his head down upon his hands, his elbows on his knees, gazing apparently at the dancing motes in the well-defined ray of sunshine that illumined his cell.
It seemed as if he saw in those tiny motes that danced and rose and fell, the fashionable people who had so influenced his career; but hour after hour, as he sat there motionless, thinking of his arrest, his examination, the fashionable world was to him something that had never existed: he could see only the terminative.
On first picturing that terrible end, when, with hideous exactness, the scaffold, the hangman, and the chaplain whispering words of hope and comfort to the thin, grey-haired, pinioned figure moving on in the slow procession had loomed up before him in all their terrible minutiae, he had shivered and shrunk away; but, after a few repetitions of this horrible waking dream, he had grown so accustomed to it that he found himself conjuring up the scene, and gazing at it mentally with a curious kind of interest that gradually became fascination.
As to the final stage, it would not be so painful as many pangs, mental and bodily, which he had suffered; and, as to the future, that troubled him but little. He saw no terrors there, only a long restful sleep, freed from the cares and sufferings that had for long past fallen to his lot.
There were no shudders now, but only a sad wistful smile and a sigh almost of content, the rest of the future seemed so welcome.
“Yes,” he said at last, as he pressed his trembling white hands to his lips, and left his seat to pace the cell, falling for the moment involuntarily into his old mincing pace, but stopping short and gazing up at the little patch of blue sky he could see; “yes—rest—sleep—Oh, God, I am so weary. Let it end!”
He stood with his hands clasped before him, and now a cloud came over his countenance, almost the only cloud that troubled him now. Claire; if she only could know—if he could tell her all—his temptations—his struggles—the long fight he had passed through.
Then he thought over his past—the mistakes of his life. How much happier he might have been if he had chosen differently. How piteous had been all this sham and pretence, what a weary existence it had been—what insults he had suffered for the sake of keeping up his miserable position, and obtaining a few guineas.
May!
The thought of his child—his favoured one, with her pretty innocent rosebud of a face and its appealing, trusting eyes. How he had worshipped that girl! How she had been his idol. How he had believed in her and sacrificed everything for her sake; and now—he lay in prison, one whom the world called murderer; and she, his idol, to whom he had sacrificed so long, for aught he knew, passing away, and everyone turned from him and his family as if they were lepers.
Well, he was a social leper. He had made no defence. This man had charged him with the crime, and he had not denied it. What wonder that people shrank from him as if he were unclean, and kept away. It was his fate. The world turned from him—son—daughter. They feared the contamination of the gaol.
No suffering that the executioner even could inflict would equal the agony of mind through which he had passed.
He clasped his hands more tightly and gazed fixedly before him, his lips moving at last, as he said in a low husky whisper:
“All forsake me now. The Master of the Ceremonies must prepare for the great ceremony of the law. Oh, that it were over, and the rest were come!”
He was at the lowest ebb of his misery amid his meditations and thoughts of home and the social wreck that was there with her thin baby face, when there was the distant sound of bolts being shot. Then there were steps and the rustle of a dress, the rattle of a great key in the door. Next the bolts of this were shot at top and bottom with a noisy jar; the door was thrust open, and the gaoler ushered in a veiled figure in black. Then the door was closed, the locks and bolts rattled; the heavy steps of the gaoler sounded upon the stone floor, and then the farther door opened and closed.
There was a moment’s silence before, with a quick rustling sound, veil and cloak were thrown aside upon the bed, and Claire’s soft arms clasped the wasted, trembling form, drawing the grey careworn face down upon her breast as she sobbed out:
“Father—father, has it come to this?” Denville remained silent for a few moments, and then with an exceeding bitter cry:
“My child! my child!” he wailed. “I said you had forsaken me in my sore need.”
“Forsaken you, dear? Oh, no, no, no!” whispered Claire, fondling him as if he had been a child, and gently drawing him to the bed, upon which she sank, while he fell upon his knees before her, utterly weak and helpless now, as he yielded to the caresses she lavished upon him, and she whispered words that seemed full of comfort—forerunners of the rest he had prayed for so short a tune before.
“Forsaken you?” she whispered. “Oh, my dear, dear father! How could you think it of your child!”
“The world says I am a murderer, and I am in prison.”
“Hush!” she cried, laying her hand upon his lips. “It was only this morning I could get permission to see you.”
She laid her soft white hand upon his lips as she spoke, and then, seeming to make an effort and check her own emotion, she drew him closer to her.
“Ah!” he sighed as he clung to her; “and I always acted so unfairly to you, my child. But tell me—May?”
“She does not know,” said Claire earnestly. “In her weak state it might kill her.”
“Perhaps better it did,” said Denville solemnly. “Poor, weak, erring girl!”
“Hush! Don’t!” cried Claire. “Father, there is hope—there is forgiveness for us all if we show that we are indeed repentant. May is not like others. Always weak and wilful and easily turned aside from what was right. No: we must not despond. I must take you both far, far away, dear. I have come for that now. You must advise with me and help me,” she said quickly. “Tell me what I am to do—what I am to set about. Come, father, quick!”
“What you are to do?” he said sadly. “Trust in heaven, my child: we cannot shape our own paths in life, and when we do try the end is wreck.”
“Father,” she cried impetuously, “do you think I was speaking of myself? I want you to tell me whom to ask for help.”
“Help, my child?”
“Yes: for money. May I ask the Barclays? They have always been so kind. Surely they will help us now.”
“Help us—money?” he said vacantly.
“Yes, for your defence. We must have counsel, father. You shall be saved—saved that we may go far from here. Father, I cannot bear it. You must be saved.”
He was startled by the wildness of her manner and the fierce energy she threw into her words.
“You do not speak,” she cried imperiously, and she laid her hands upon his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. “You must not, you shall not give up and let yourself drift to destruction. Why do you not tell me? I am only a woman. Father, what shall I do?”
“What shall you do?” he said mournfully.
“Yes, yes. Forgive me for what I say—I, your child, who love you most dearly now that you are in this terrible trouble. Father, we must go away together to some distant place where, in a life of contrition and prayer, we may appeal daily for the forgiveness that is given to those who seek.”
He gazed in her eyes with his lip quivering, and a terrible look of despair in his face.
“Forgiveness for those who seek?”
“Yes, from a merciful God. Oh, father, if I wring your heart in what I say it is because I love you as your child.”
“Ah!”
A piteous sigh escaped his lips, and his head sank down upon his breast.
“You are silent,” she cried reproachfully, “silent, when the time is so short. I shall be dragged from your side directly, and you have not advised me what to do. I must have money. I must get counsel for you and advice.”
He drew a long breath and raised his head, his lips parting but uttering no sound.
“Yes!” she cried, “yes! Speak, father. Shall I go to Mr Barclay?”
“No.”
“Then tell me what I shall do, dear. Pray rouse yourself from this despair. Speak—tell me. What shall I do first?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Oh, father!”
“They say I committed this murder—that I crushed out the life of that miserable old woman. So be it.”
“Father!”
“I say—so be it,” he repeated firmly. “The law says one life must answer for another. Well—I am ready.”
Claire wrung her hands, as he rose from where he had knelt, and gazed at him in pitying wonder and awe.
“God is merciful,” said the old man mournfully. “He readeth all our hearts. Claire, my child, I am not afraid to die. I am sick for the rest that is to come.”
“But, father!” wailed Claire.
“My child, I know. I have thought of all. I have seen everything in the silence and darkness of this cell; but it is only a passing away from this weary life to one that is full of rest and peace. There is no injustice there.”
“Father, you madden me,” whispered Claire hoarsely. “You must not give up like this. Tell me what to do.”
“Think me innocent, my child,” he said softly—“innocent of that crime. And now let us talk of yourself and your brother Morton.”
She noticed that he did not mention May’s name.
“It is very bitter,” he said. “I had hoped to provide for my child, but I was not able. But there, you are stronger of mind than I, and you will be protected. That woman, Mrs Barclay, loves you, my child. But Morton, he is a mere boy, and weak—weak and vain, like his father, my child—as I have been. Watch over him, Claire. Advise him when he is falling away.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, father; but you—”
“I shall be at rest, my child,” he said sadly. “Do not think of me. Then there is—”
He paused for a few moments with his lips quivering till he saw her inquiring eyes, and with a heavy sigh he went on.
”—There is May.”
He paused again, to go on almost lightly, but she read the agony in his eyes, and clung to his arm and held it to her breast.
“This is like my will,” he said, “the only one I shall make. There is May. I have not been fair, my dear. I have given her all my love—to your neglect. I have made her my idol, and—and—like her brother Morton, she is very weak. Such a pretty child, beautiful as an angel. Claire dearest, I loved her so well, and it has been my punishment for my injustice to you.”
“Dearest father!”
“Yes, I was unjust to you, but that is past. I pray your forgiveness, my child, as I say to you, I leave you the legacy of that boy and girl—that child-wife. Claire, you must forgive her, as I pray Him to forgive me. Ignore the past, Claire, my child, and in every way you can be ready to step between her and the evil that she goes too near. You will do this?”
“Oh, father, yes. But you? What shall I do now?”
“Claire, only a few short weeks, and I shall be in my grave. Don’t start, my child. To you, in your sweet spring of life, it is the black pit of horror. To me, in the bitter winter of my life, there is no horror there: it is but the calm, silent resting-place where tired nature sleeps and life’s troubles end. There, there, my little one, to whose sweet virtues and truth I have been blind, I am almost content with my fate for the reason that you have awakened me from a trance into which I had fallen. Claire, my child, can you forgive this weak, vain, old man?”
She leaned forward and kissed his white forehead, and, as he drew her closer to him, she nestled in his breast, and clung to him, sobbing convulsively.
“Hah!” he sighed, “I did not know I could be so happy again. Think of me as an innocent—an injured man, my child, as of one whose lips are sealed. Pray for me as I shall pray for you.”
“But, father, I may see Mr Barclay?”
He was silent for a few minutes.
“Yes,” he said at last.
Claire uttered a sigh of relief.
“You shall ask him to come here. I will appeal to him to watch over you. He is rough, Claire, and his wife is vulgar—coarse; but, God help me! I wish I had had such a true and sterling heart. There, hush! I have made my will,” he said, smiling. “It is done; I have but to seal it with my death, and I see its approach without a shade of fear.”
“But, father! my dearest father!”
“My own,” he said tenderly, as he kissed her and smiled down upon her. “Ah! you do not shrink from me now. Sweet, true woman. Oh, that I could have been so blind! You were going to ask me something.”
“Yes, dearest,” she whispered; “I want you to forgive—”
“May? Yes: she is forgiven. I forgive her, poor, weak child. Tell her that I had but tender words for her even now. I would send her messages, but of what avail would they be, even as the words of a dying man? No; she has not the stability. It is more her failing than her sin. You were asking me to forgive her.”
“I knew you forgave her, dearest, but I want you to forgive poor Fred.”
He started from her as if he had been stung.
“I saw him last night, and he begs and prays of you to forgive him and let him come. Father, he loves you in spite of all this estrangement.”
“Silence!” cried the old man furiously. “Have I not said that I would not hear his name?”
“Father dearest, what have I done?” cried Claire, as she gazed in terror at the convulsed features, at the claw-like hands, extended, clutching, and opening and shutting as the old man gasped for air.
“Father! Oh, help!”
A terrible purple colour suffused his face; his knotted veins started upon his temples, and it seemed as if he were about to fall in a fit; but the paroxysm began to pass away. He caught at Claire’s hand, and held by it while with his other he signed to her to be silent, for just then the clanking of bolts and locks was heard, and the door was thrown open to admit Richard Linnell and Mr Barclay.