Volume Two—Chapter Thirty One.
Claire Takes Steps: so does May.
“What shall I do?”
The low wild cry of agony that escaped from Claire Denville’s breast was heard by none, as she stood motionless, listening to Louis Gravani’s steps till they died away.
Then, trembling violently in an agony of terror and despair, she rushed up to her bedroom, and threw herself upon her knees, with her hands still clasping her temples.
What should she do? To whom could she go for help and counsel? Mrs Barclay? Impossible! Cora Dean! No, no: she could not tell her! Her father? She shivered at the thought. It would nearly kill him. He believed so in poor, weak, childish May. She could not—she dared not tell him.
If she had only gone to him at once and shared her secret with him when May had confessed her marriage, and told her about the little child, how easy all this would have been now!
No! Would it? The complication was too dreadful.
Claire knelt there with her brain swimming, and the confusion in her mind growing moment by moment worse.
She wanted to think clearly—to plan out some way of averting a horrible exposure from their family; and, as she strove, the thought came upon her with crushing force that she was sinking into a miserable schemer—one who was growing lower in the sight of all she knew.
She pressed her hands over her eyes, but she could not shut out Richard Linnell’s face, and his stern, grave looks, that seemed to read her through and through, keeping her back from acting some fresh deceit, when something was spurring her on to try and save poor weak May.
The horror of Lady Teigne’s death: the suspicion of her having made an assignation with Sir Harry Payne; the supposed elopement with Major Rockley—all these clinging to her and lowering her in the sight of the world. There were those, too, who had noted her visits to the fisherman’s cottage.
It was terrible—one hideous confusion, to which this fresh trouble had come; and she asked herself, in the agony of her spirit, whether it would not be better to wait till the dark, soft night had fallen, and the tide was flowing, lapping, and whispering amongst the piles at the end of the pier. She had but to walk quietly down unseen—to descend those steps, and let the cool, soft wave take her to its breast and bear her away, lulling her to the easy, sweet rest of oblivion.
And May?
She started to her feet at the thought.
And Richard Linnell?
He would go on believing ill of her, and she would never stand up before him, listening as he asked her forgiveness for every doubt, never to be her husband, but ready then to look up to her as all that was pure and true.
May! She must save May. How, she knew not, but she must go to her. Something must be done.
Hurriedly dressing, she went out, and walked swiftly to her brother-in-law’s house, where the servant admitted her with no great show of respect, and she was shown into the drawing-room.
“I’ll tell my mistress you are here,” said the footman; and he went out, closing the door behind him rather loudly.
The effect was to make a little man jump up from the couch where he had been sleeping, with a loud exclamation.
“What is it? Who the—. Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, what do you want?”
“I came—I called to see May, Frank dear,” said Claire, trembling.
“Well, then, I just wish you wouldn’t,” he said testily. “It’s bad enough to have to bear the relationship, without having you come here.”
“Frank!—dear Frank!”
“There, don’t ‘dear Frank’ me. I should have thought, after what had occurred, you would have been ashamed to show your face here again.”
“Frank dear, we are brother and sister; for pity’s sake, spare me. Is it the duty of a gentleman to speak to me like this?”
She looked at him with a pitying dread in her eyes, as she thought of the horror hanging over his house. His allusions were keen enough, but they were blunt arrows compared to the bolts that threatened to fall upon his home; and, in her desire to shield him and his wife, if possible, from some of the suffering that must come, she scarcely felt their points.
“Gentleman, eh? You behave like a lady, don’t you? Nice position we hold in society through you and the old man, don’t we? I’ll be off abroad, that’s what I’ll do, and take May away from the old connection.”
“Yes, do!” cried Claire excitedly. “Do, Frank, at once. No, no; you must not do that.—Heaven help me! What am I saying?” she sighed to herself.
“Best thing to do,” said Burnett. “Shouldn’t have you always coming in then.”
“Frank dear,” said Claire deprecatingly, “I have not been to see May since—”
“You disgraced yourself on the night of the party,” he said brutally.
“Frank!”
“Oh, come: it’s of no use to ride the high horse with me, my lady. I’m not a fool. I repeat it: you haven’t been since the night you disgraced us by inviting that little blackguard, Harry Payne, to see you; and it would have been better if you had not come now.”
Claire winced as if she were being lashed, but she uttered no word of complaint. It was her fate, she told herself, to suffer for others, and she was ready to play the social martyr’s part, and save May and Burnett if she could.
As she debated in her mind whether Burnett had not proposed the solution of the difficulty in taking her sister away, the thought was crushed by the recollection that May was Gravani’s wife, and that she would be saved and made happier could she leave with him.
Then the feeling came that all this was madness, and the position hopeless, and she said imploringly:
“Let me see May, Frank.”
“What do you want with her? To beg for more money? You’ve kept her short enough lately.”
“Frank! indeed—”
“No lies, please,” he cried. “I know you’ve had at least a guinea a week from her for long enough past.”
It was true, but the money was for Gravani’s child; and Claire’s face grew hollow and old-looking as she felt that she dared not defend herself.
“I suppose you have come for more money, haven’t you?” said Burnett spitefully.
“No—indeed no!” cried Claire.
“I do not believe you,” he said brutally; “and—”
“Ah, Claire, you here!” said May, rustling into the room, all silk, and scent, and flowers.
“Yes, she’s here,” said Burnett; “and the sooner she’s gone the better. I’m going out.”
“Very well, dear,” said May. “But don’t pout and frown like that at his little frightened wife.”
“Get out!” said Burnett, “and don’t be a fool before people.”
He shook her off as he said this, and strutted towards the door, where he turned with a sneering grin upon his face.
“I say,” he cried, “I didn’t give you any money when you asked me this morning.”
“No, dear, you didn’t. Give me some now, before you go. Don’t go out and leave me without.”
“Not a shilling!” he cried, with an unpleasant cackling laugh.
May stood with the pretty smile upon her face, a strange contrast to the pained classic sorrow upon her sister’s better-formed features, amid perfect silence, till the front door closed, and Frank Burnett’s strutting step was heard on the shingle walk leading to the gate, when a change came over the bright, flower-like countenance, which was convulsed with anger in miniature.
“Ugh! Little contemptible wretch!” she exclaimed. “How I do hate you! Claire, I shall end by running away from the little miserable ape, if I don’t make up my mind to kill him. Ah!”
She ended with an ejaculation full of pain, and turned a wondering, childish look of reproach on her sister, for Claire had crossed to her, and suddenly grasped her wrist.
“Silence, May!” she cried.
“Oh, don’t!” said May, wresting herself free, and stamping her foot like a fretful, angry child. “And if you’ve come here to do nothing but scold me and find fault, you’d better go.”
“May—May! Listen to me.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll go up to my own room and cry my eyes out. You don’t know; you can’t imagine what a little wretch he is. I wish you were married to him instead of me.”
“May!”
“I won’t listen,” cried the foolish little woman, stopping her ears. “You bully me for caring for Sir Harry Payne, who is all that is tender and loving; and I’m tied to that hateful little wretch for life, and he makes my very existence a curse.”
“May, will you listen?”
“I can see you are scolding me, but I can’t hear a word you say, and I won’t listen. Oh, I do wish you were married to him instead of me.”
“I wish to heaven I were!” cried Claire solemnly.
“What?” cried May, the stopping of whose ears seemed now to be very ineffective. “You wish you were married to the little mean-spirited, insignificant wretch?”
“Yes,” said Claire excitedly, “for then you would be free.”
“What do you mean by that, Claire?”
“Did you not tell me that Louis Gravani was dead?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“Why did you tell me that?”
“Because he went to Rome or Florence—I am not sure which—and caught a fever and died.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, dear, he never wrote and told me he was dead, of course,” said May with a little laugh, “but he told me he had caught the fever, and he never wrote to me any more, so, of course, he died.”
“And, without knowing for certain, you married Frank Burnett?”
“Don’t talk in that way, dear. It’s just like the actress at Drury Lane, where Frank took me. You would make a fortune on the stage. What do you mean, looking at me so tragically?”
“May, prepare yourself for terrible news.”
“Oh, Claire! Is poor, dear papa dead?”
“May, Louis Gravani is alive.”
“Alive? Oh, I am so glad!” she cried, clapping her hands. “Poor, dear little Louis! How he did love me! Then he isn’t dead, after all, and I’m his wife, and not Frank’s. Oh, what fun!”
Claire caught at the back of a chair, and stood gazing wildly at her sister, utterly stunned by her childish unthinking manner.
“May—May!” she cried bitterly; “your sin is finding you out.”
“Sin? How absurd you are! Why, what sin have I committed?”
“That clandestine marriage, May.”
“Now what nonsense, dear. It wasn’t my fault, as I told you before. You don’t know what love is. I do, and I loved poor, dear little Louis. I couldn’t help it, and he made me marry him.”
“Oh, May, May!”
“I tell you, I was obliged to marry him. One can’t do as one likes, when one loves. You’ll know that some day. But, I am glad.”
“May!” cried Claire reproachfully.
“So I am. Why, he’ll come and fetch me away from my miserable tyrant, and we can have little pet blossom away from Fisherman Dick’s, and take a cottage somewhere, and then I can sing and play to baby, while dear old Louis reads the Italian poets to me, and goes on with his painting.”
A piteous sigh escaped from Claire Denville’s lips as she fervently breathed in wild appeal:
“My God, help me!” And then—“It is too hard—too hard. What shall I do?”
A change came over the scene. The picture May Burnett had painted dissolved in the thin air, and she turned quickly upon her sister.
“How do you know this, Claire? Has Louis written to you?”
“No. He is here.”
“Here! In Saltinville?”
“Yes, here in Saltinville. He would have been at this house, only I prevailed upon him to stay till I had seen you—to prepare you.”
“Oh, Claire! Does he know I am married?”
“No; he believes you have been as faithful to him as he to you.”
“Oh!”
It was a wild cry; and a look of frightened horror came over the pretty baby face, as its owner caught Claire round the waist, and clung to her.
“Claire, Claire!” she cried. “Save me! What shall I do? Louis is an Italian, and he is all love and passion and jealousy. I dare not see him. He would kill me, if he knew. What shall I do? What can I do? Oh, this is terrible, Claire!” she cried. “Claire!” and she shook her sister passionately. “Why don’t you speak? What shall I do?”
Claire remained silent.
“Why don’t you speak, I say?” cried May with childish petulance.
“I am praying for help and guidance, sister, for I do not know.”
May let herself sink down upon the carpet with her hands clasped, as she gazed straight at her sister, looking to her for advice and help, while Claire remained with her eyes fixed, deeply pondering upon their terrible position.
“I can only think of one thing,” she said at last. “I must see Louis Gravani, and tell him all.”
“No, no; I tell you he will kill me.”
“He loves you, May; and I must appeal to him to act like a gentleman in this terrible strait.”
“Don’t I tell you that he is a passionate Italian, and that he would kill me. He always used to say that he felt as if he could stab anybody who came between us. Oh, Claire, what shall I do? My poor life’s full of miserable troubles. I wish I were dead.”
“Hush, May, and try and help me, instead of acting in this childish way.”
“There, now you turn against me.”
“No, no, my poor sister. I want to help you, and give you strength.”
“Then you will help me, Claire?”
“Help you!” said Claire reproachfully. “Did I spare my poor reputation for your sake?”
“Oh, don’t talk of that now, only tell me, what shall I do?”
“You must come with me.”
“With you, dear? Where?”
“Home, to your father’s roof; and we must tell him all. He will protect you.”
“Come—home—tell poor papa? No—no—no, I cannot—I dare not.”
“You must, May. It were a shame and disgrace to stay here, now that you know your husband is alive.”
“My first husband, Claire dear,” said May pitifully.
“Oh, hush, May; you’ll drive me mad. There, go and dress yourself, and come home.”
“I will not—I daren’t,” cried May; “and, besides, this is my home.”
“And Louis? Am I to tell him where you are?”
“No, no. I tell you he would kill me. I must have time to think. Didn’t you tell me he was going to wait, Claire? Look here, I dare not see him. No, everything is over between us. You must see him, dear.”
“See him?” said Claire.
“Yes, dear, yes. Oh, Claire, Claire!” she cried wildly, going upon her knees to her sister, “pray—pray, save me. Tell Louis I am not married to Frank. Tell him he must go away, and not come back till I write to him.”
“May, how can you be so childish?” cried Claire piteously.
“I am not childish. This is not childish. I know—I know—tell him this, and he will go away.”
“Tell him this?”
“Yes, yes; don’t you understand? He is very stupid; tell him I am dead.”
“May!”
“Stop a moment; you said he was going to wait.”
“Till I can give him news of you.”
“Yes; then you must keep him quiet for a day or two, till I have had time to think.”
“There is no time.”
“Give me till to-morrow, Claire. Don’t you see I am all confused, and mad with grief?”
“Till to-morrow?” said Claire, gazing at her, for it was like a respite to her as well, in her horrible doubt and confusion of intellect.
“Yes, till to-morrow. I will shut myself up in my room till then, and try and think out what will be best. There, go now. I can’t talk to you; I can’t think; I can’t do anything till you are gone; and I must have time.”
Claire left her at last unwillingly, but with the understanding that May was to stay in her own room till the next day, and await her return.
“It will all come right at last, Claire,” said May, at parting. “It always does, dear. There, don’t fidget. It’s very tiresome of him to come now; but I don’t know: perhaps it’s all for the best.”
She kissed Claire affectionately at parting; and the latter sighed as she hurried home, struggling with herself as to how she should make all this known to her father.
“He must know,” she said; and she entered the dining-room at once, to find that he was absent, though he had been home while she was away.
“Master said he had some business to transact, ma’am, and would have a chop at the Assembly Rooms. You were not to wait dinner.”
Claire went to her own room to think.
May had, in accordance with her promise, gone to hers; then she had written a brief note, ordered the carriage, and gone for a drive, closely veiled. One of her calls was at Miss Clode’s, where she entrusted her note, not to some volume to be sold, but to Miss Clode’s round-eyed, plump-cheeked niece, who promised to deliver it at once.