Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Three.
A Revelation.
“Don’t, pray don’t talk to me, Mrs Barclay,” said Claire piteously. “Let me lie back here and think and rest for a few minutes, and then I must go up to May.”
“No, no, no, my dear; you let poor May alone a bit. She’s getting on right enough, and you want more attention than she does. And don’t think, my dear. Have patience. Things may turn out all right.”
“No,” said Claire, with a sigh. “There is no hope now.”
“Oh, yes, there is!” said Mrs Barclay decisively. “Jo-si-ah says a reprieve may come at any moment, for Lord Carboro is trying might and main, and Mr Richard Linnell—ah, does that touch you?”
“No, no, hush!” cried Claire, in agony. “Don’t mention his name.”
“I shall,” cried Mrs Barclay. “I shall say what I think will do you good, my dear. Mr Richard Linnell has been working night and day, just as he did at the trial. Now he has been getting a petition signed by everyone in Saltinville, and that’s going to win, I think.”
Claire caught her arm and looked at her with dilating eyes.
“Yes, I think that’s going to do some good, and we’ve got to trust in Providence, my dear, and wait.”
“Yes, yes. I do pray fervently for help.”
“And you’ve got to rouse yourself up, my dear, and do something to keep from thinking.”
“I can’t—I can’t, dear Mrs Barclay.”
“Oh, yes, you can, my dear. Not for yourself; I want you to help me.”
“Help you?”
“Yes, my dear; help me.”
“I’ll try,” said Claire sadly.
“That’s my pet; I knew you would.”
She embraced Claire tenderly, and then smoothed her hair, as if proud of her.
“What shall I do?” she said to herself. “Booking? No: jools always please womenfolk. I like ’em myself.”
“What am I to do?” said Claire. “I will try, Mrs Barclay. I must have been a great trouble to you.”
“A great fiddlestick,” cried the plump dame. “What nonsense! Now I’m going to just dust over and put down all the jools we have in the iron chest. Mr Barclay’s securities, and some that he has bought. He always likes me to look over them now and then, and mark off any that have been sold or let out, and so on. You’ll help me, won’t you?”
“Willingly,” said Claire sadly.
“That’s a dear. Look there on the other side of the way. It’s Mr Linnell again. He’s looking up. Go to the window, and return his bow, my dear.”
“No, no, I could not,” cried Claire excitedly.
“Well, then, my dear, I must,” said Mrs Barclay, suiting the action to the word, and not only bowing, but kissing her plump hands to Linnell again and again. “There he goes,” she exclaimed. “Poor young man! I don’t know whose fault it is, but some one’s wrong; and I don’t like to see two who ought to be helpmeets keeping at a distance for nothing.”
Claire’s brow contracted, but she said no word, while, after diving into a pocket somewhere beneath her voluminous skirts, Mrs Barclay brought out a bunch of bright keys, with one of which she opened a great cabinet in a dark corner of the bric-à-brac filled room.
“Here’s where we keep the jools, my dear,” she said, as she took another key and fitted it in a large iron safe within the cabinet. “My Jo-si-ah says that no housebreakers could open that iron chest if they tried for a week. Now, you help me. Hold your apron and I’ll fill it. Then we’ll lay the cases on the table and look at them, and compare them with the books, and then put ’em away again.”
Claire smiled sadly as the eager little woman plunged her plump arm into the safe and brought out, one after the other, the quaint, old-fashioned morocco cases of every shape and size; and these were duly laid upon the table, on whose cloth a space had been cleared.
Along with these was a canvas bag of the kind used in a bank for sovereigns, and a couple of chamois leather bags of similar size and shape.
“That’s about all,” said Mrs Barclay, bustling about with her eyes beaming and her cheeks showing what an artist would term high lights. “Now we’ll have a good look at ’em, my dear; all grand people of title’s family jewels that they’ve had to sell or pledge through gambling at the tables. Ah, a very nasty sort of trade, my dear, buying and lending on them; but, as Jo-si-ah says, some people will be fools, and if he didn’t make money from them other folks would.”
She placed a chair for Claire, and another for herself; and then, opening a drawer, she took out a ruddy piece of wash-leather, and what seemed to be an ivory tooth-brush that had grown out of knowledge, and a nail-brush in a state of consumption.
“I always give ’em a brush up, my dear, before I put ’em away. Jo-si-ah likes to see ’em kept in good order. He says they look so much more valuable when they’re brought out.”
She opened one faded red case by pressing on the snap, and laid bare a diamond necklet in old-fashioned silver setting, the gems sparkling in the light as they were moved; for they were evidently of considerable value.
“There,” she cried; “those once belonged to a duchess, my dear, but they’re ours now. Jo-si-ah said I might wear ’em if I liked; but they’re too fine for me. They’d look lovely on your soft white neck. Let me try ’em.”
“No, no—pray!” cried Claire in alarm, as she shrank away with such a look of wild horror in her eyes that Mrs Barclay laid the jewels down.
“Why, my pretty!” she said tenderly, “what a fuss to make about nothing.”
“Yes, yes, it was, I know,” said Claire, with a forced laugh. “It was very foolish of me; but—don’t—do that again.”
“No; if you don’t wish it, my dear, of course,” said Mrs Barclay; and she looked across wonderingly at her companion, for she could not comprehend how the sight of those diamonds and the attempt to place them on her neck had recalled the back drawing-room at the house on the Parade, with the hideous old woman sitting up in bed with her jewels about her on the coverlid and on her arms and neck. The sight of diamonds had become hateful to Claire, and she was ready to leave the table, but the thought of seeming strange to Mrs Barclay restrained her.
“Poor old girl! she had to wear paste, as lots of them do when they sell their jewels, my dear. Ah, they’re a beggarly set; when once they take to gambling they don’t seem to be fine ladies any longer. Back you go in the box.”
Snap.
Mrs Barclay had given the diamond necklet a brush and a rub while she was speaking; and then, taking up and opening a book, she handed it to Claire, bidding her look out for the Duchess of Duligne’s diamonds, and make a pencil tick against them.
This done and the morocco case replaced in the safe, another was taken up and opened, displaying a ruby and gold bracelet.
“There, I’ll put that on my wrist,” said Mrs Barclay, suiting the action to the word. “I won’t ask you to have it on, my dear. Some girls would want to, and wouldn’t like ’em taken off again. But you’re different to most people. Look at that now. Jewels always seem best against skin and flesh, but there, my gracious, how fat I am getting! Why it won’t snap round my wrist! Think of that.”
She laughed as merrily as a girl as she held up the glittering gems, and then started, with a loud “Lor’ bless me!”
For just then there was a tremendous double knock at the door; and, jumping up with wonderful activity for one of her size, she trotted across to the window.
“Why, it’s Cora Dean, my dear. No, no: don’t go,” she continued, as Claire rose hastily.
“I do not feel as if I could meet her, Mrs Barclay,” Claire pleaded.
“But she’s nobody, my dear, and she’ll be so hurt if you go, for I’m sure to let out that you were here just now.”
“Miss Dean, ma’am,” said the servant, opening the door; and Claire’s indecision was cut short by Cora going straight to her, taking her hand and kissing her, before bestowing the same salute upon Mrs Barclay.
“I am glad to see you, my dear,” said the latter volubly, for she was nervously afraid that Claire would go, and of the opinion that the best way to set both at their ease was to talk.
“I ought to have been here before,” said Cora, “but my mother has been ill. Don’t think me unkind, Claire Denville.”
She bent over and took Claire’s hand, and met her eyes with a curious wistful look that was full of affection; but, as in some clear gem, such as lay beside them on the table, there was a hidden fire that kept darting forth, and that fire was the vainly-smothered bitter jealousy that was the torment of her life.
“It was very kind of you to come,” said Claire quietly; and there was a coldness in her manner that seemed to make Cora’s jealousy glow more fiercely, for the fire flashed up, and the wistful affectionate look seemed to be burning fast away.
It was only a matter of moments, though, for a change came over Claire. It was as if something within her whispered:
“Why should I be bitter and envious, and hate her for winning a happiness that could never be mine.”
With a quick movement and a low hysterical cry, she threw her arms round Cora’s neck and hid her face in her bosom, sobbing bitterly at first; and then, as Cora held her tightly in her embrace, and soothed and caressed her, the sobs grew less violent, the tears fell more slowly, and at last she raised her face and gazed in her friend’s eyes, offering her lips with a simple child-like motion for the kiss in which they were joined—
“Oh—oh—oh—oh! Don’t you take any notice of me, my dears,” burst forth Mrs Barclay. “It’s only my foolishness, but I couldn’t keep it back. There, there,” she cried in a choking voice, “I’m better now—I’m getting better now. I couldn’t help it though. There!”
She dabbed her eyes with her scented handkerchief, and beaming on both in turns, she gave first one and then the other a hug full of affection.
“It does me good, my dears, to see you both real friends at last; and now let’s be sensible and chat together till I’ve finished these jools, and then we’ll have a nice strong cup of tea.”
Neither Claire nor Cora spoke, but sat with full hearts, and with a feeling of relief stealing over them as their hostess prattled on, opening case after case, and drawing the book to herself so as not to trouble Claire.
“Look at those, my dears; real choice pearls. Ain’t they lovely?” she said as she took out a ring from its tiny box. “They’re small, but they’re as good as good. Pearls always go best on dark people. Now just you try that on, Cora Dean, my dear. No; that finger’s a little too large, and that’s too small. That’s it to a T; just a fit.”
“It is beautiful,” said Cora, admiring the pearls. “Look, Claire.”
“Yes,” said Claire, smiling; “they are very beautiful.”
“Not as you want jools on you, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, “with a face, and rich red mouth, and throat, and hair, like you have. You want no jools to make you handsome as handsome can be.”
“Oh, yes, I do, Mrs Barclay; and I did not know that you had taken to flattery,” cried Cora, laughing.
“’Tain’t flattery, my dear, it’s truth,” said Mrs Barclay; “and I can’t say which is the handsomer—you or Claire Denville there—for you’re both right in your own ways. You neither of you want jools.”
“I do, Mrs Barclay, and I mean to have this ring if it is for sale. How much is it? It’s lovely.”
“It is for sale, my dear,” cried Mrs Barclay; “and you shall have it and pay for it.”
“And the price?”
“The price is that you’re to be a good true friend to Claire Denville there, as long as you live, and,”—a hearty smack on Cora’s Juno-like red lips—“there’s the receipt, my dear.”
“But, Mrs Barclay—”
“Not another word, my dear,” cried the plump lady. “There’s the little case, and—there!” she continued, taking up a pen and writing, as she muttered, “Half-hoop oriental pearl ring: Countess of Dinster. S-o-l-d. There.”
She looked up, smiling with satisfaction, and busily opened another case.
“But, really, Mrs Barclay,” began Cora, “such an expensive ring.”
“Why, bless your heart, my dear, you don’t think I look upon such a thing as that as expensive. Why, I’ve only to say to my Jo-si-ah I want a set of diamonds, and if they were worth a couple of thousand pounds he’d give ’em to me directly. There, I won’t hear no more. These are nice, ain’t they, my dears? Emeralds—real.”
She held up a glittering green suite.
“Look at the flaws in them. Shows how good they are. Look at these sapphires and diamonds mixed, too. They’re worth a good thousand, they are.”
She spread out the beautiful stones, and Cora’s eyes glistened with pleasure as case after case was opened, for it was a feast for her that she thoroughly enjoyed, while Claire sat looking on listless and sad till the task was nearly done.
“I wouldn’t spend so much time over them, my dears,” said Mrs Barclay, “only I think you like seeing ’em. There, now, there’s only these three lots to open.”
She took a wash-leather bag and opened it, to pour out some rough-looking crystals into her hand, as if it had been grain at a corn-market.
“Rough diamonds, dear,” she said to Cora; and, pouring them back, she retied the bag, and took the other and served it the same. “Seed pearls, those are, and worth more than you’d think.”
This bag was also retied and placed in the safe, nothing being left but the canvas packet.
“Ah!” said Mrs Barclay, “I always mean to get a case made for this lot, every time I see them. They’re not much good, but it would set them off.”
As she spoke she untied the bag, turned it over, and, taking hold of the bottom, shook out on the table a necklet, cross, tiara, and pair of bracelets, which tinkled as they fell on the table.
“You’ll spoil them,” said Cora, taking up the tiara admiringly.
“Spoil them? Not I, my dear. You couldn’t spoil them.”
“But they are very beautiful,” said Cora, taking up the cross by the little ring at the top. “Look, Claire dear. Why, I—”
Claire turned her eyes upon them slowly, and then her countenance changed, and she uttered a cry:
“Lady Teigne’s diamonds!”