you were receiving, ma'am," said Isaac in defence.
Mrs Barclay rose to go, but Claire laid a hand upon her arm, and sheresumed her seat as Cora Dean entered, elaborately dressed, andexchanged a most formal courtesy as the visitor rose once more.
Cora could not have explained her visit, even to herself. She hatedClaire: she loved her. She was triumphant over her fall: she was sorryfor her. She was certain that she would no longer find in her a rival,and in spite of this, she felt a curious sensation of soreness of heart.
She who had for a couple of years past been slighted by the fashionablefolk of Saltinville, while Claire had been received everywhere, felt inthe new flush of the success she had won a kind of triumph over anunfortunate sister, who would now, she knew, be socially ostracised; andin the plenitude of her own wealth of position she had told herself thatshe could afford to go and call upon the fallen rival, and, under theguise of politeness, see for herself how she bore her trouble, andassume a consolatory _role_ that she told herself she did not feel.
But Cora Dean, ill-educated and badly brought up, violent in herpassions and quick to dislike a rival, had a very kindly woman's heartwithin her breast; and as soon as she had formally saluted Mrs Barclay,and had seen the sad, grave face that met hers, ready to suffer insultif it were offered in the guise of friendship, a change came over her,the tender heart leaped, and in full remembrance of their last parting,she advanced quickly and kissed Claire warmly.
There was no disguising the tears in her eyes, and they were infectious,for Mrs Barclay, whose feathers had been rising fast and her tonguesharpening into a point, heaved a tremendous sigh as she jumped up andexclaimed:
"It's very little I know of you, Miss Dean, and--I'm a plain woman--Inever thought I should like you; but if you wouldn't mind, my dear!"
It was a kiss of peace, and Mrs Barclay added another that was veryloud and very warm.
"And her saying that she had no friends," she exclaimed. "Pooh!"
Claire darted a grateful look at both, and then began to wince andshrink as Mrs Barclay, in all well-meaning, went on talking from one tothe other with the most voluble of tongues.
"I declare," she cried, "as I said to my Jo-si-ah, there's no end to thenasty scandals talked in this miserable town."
"Pray say no more, Mrs Barclay," cried Claire; "I am so grateful to youboth for coming here, but--"
"I won't say much, my dear, but I must tell Miss Dean, or I shan't beable to bear myself. What we want here is a great high tide to come allover the place and wash it clean."
"Why, we should be drowned, too, Mrs Barclay," said Cora, laughing.
"I hope not, my dear, for I'm no lover of scandal; but do you know, theyactually have had the impudence to say that my dear Claire here has beenseen at her back door talking to a common soldier."
Claire tried to control herself, but her eyes would stray to Cora Dean'sand rest there as if fascinated.
"When the reason is," continued the visitor, as Claire was askingherself should she not boldly avow her connection, "the reason is thatshe has been seen talking to her brother, who is not a common soldier,but an officer. What do you think of that?"
Cora turned to her, smiled, and said:
"I can believe in the Saltinville people saying anything ill-natured forthe sake of petty gossip. We had much to contend against when we came."
"Of course, you had, my dear. Look at me, too: just because my poorJo-si-ah does money business with some of the spendthrifts, and, ofcourse, lets 'em pay for it, I'm made out to be the most greedy,miserly, wicked, drinking woman that ever breathed. I'm bad enough, Idare say, and between ourselves I do like a glass of hot port wine neguswith plenty of nutmeg; but I am not so bad as they say, am I, my dear?"
"You are one of the truest-hearted women I know," said Claire, takingher hand.
"There's a character for me, my dear," said Mrs Barclay, turning toCora and nodding her head and laughing. "Ah, I must tell you that too,"she cried as the recollection came, "just because--"
"Mrs Barclay," said Claire, rising, "pray spare me. I am not well; Ihave not been well lately, and--and--I know you will forgive me."
"Forgive you, my dear?" cried Mrs Barclay. "Why, of course. It'shorribly thoughtless of me. There, good-bye. Are you coming, MissDean?"
Cora rose, feeling that she could not stay longer, and after a warmleave-taking, during which the two younger women mentally askedthemselves whether they were friends or bitter enemies, Claire'svisitors withdrew and walked together along the parade.
The slightest touch set Mrs Barclay's tongue going, and before they hadgone far Cora was in full possession of the newly-retailed story aboutClaire's visits to the fishermen's huts.
"And do you believe this of her?" said Cora, with an eagerness that shecould not conceal.
"Now, we're just become friendly, my dear, and I should be sorry to sayanything nasty, but I ask you do I look as if I believed it?"
"You look as if you were Claire Denville's best friend," said Coradiplomatically.
"And so I am," replied Mrs Barclay proudly. "I can't help peopletalking scandal. They glory in it. And, look here, my dear, it isn'tfar from here, and if you don't mind, we'll go along the cliff to thevery house and call."
"Call!" said Cora in amaze.
"Yes; it's at a fisherman's, you know--Fisherman Dick's--and we can geta pint or two of s'rimps for tea."
The consequence was that Cora did walk along the cliff to FishermanDick's cottage, and when Mrs Barclay reached her house an hour laterher reticule bag was bulging so that the strings could not be drawnclose, and the reason why was--shrimps.
On the other hand, Cora Dean had not filled her reticule with shrimps,but her mind with unpleasant little thoughts that made it bulge.Curious thoughts they were, too, and, like Mrs Barclay's shrimps, alljumbled together, heads and tails, ups and downs. She felt then thatshe could not arrange them, but that there was a great sensation oftriumph in her breast, and what she wanted to do most was to sit downand think--no easy task, for her brain was in a whirl.
Volume Two, Chapter XVIII.
A STORMY SCENE.
"I've never dared to write to you before, Clairy. Frank watches me so;but, though I don't come, I think lots about you, and I shall neverforget what a dear, good thing you were that night. Good-bye. We mustbe separate for a bit, till that bother's all forgotten, but don't youfidget; I'm going to be so good now."
Claire was reading the note that had come to her, she knew not how, forthe second time, wondering how a woman--her sister--could be so utterlyheartless; and, after leaving her to bear the brunt of Sir Harry Payne'sshameless accusation, treat it all as such a mere trifle.
Claire held the letter in her hand, with her spirits very low, and abitter, despairing look was in her eyes as she sat gazing before her,thinking that no greater trouble could come to her now.
Richard Linnell had just passed the house, and though ever since thenight of the "At Home," she had shrunk away and rigidly kept fromnoticing him, the one pleasure she had longed for was to see the grave,wistful look he was in the habit of directing at the window. Now, hehad gone by without raising his eyes.
It was the most cruel pang of all. He might have had faith in her, evenif she had rejected his suit, and told him that it was hopeless in theextreme.
Her cheeks burned as she thought of Cora Dean with her Juno-like faceand her manifest liking for Richard Linnell.
"What is it to me?" she said to herself; and her tears fell fast uponthe letter she held in her hand, and she did not hear her father enterthe drawing-room, nor see him glance quickly from her in the flesh tothe sweetly innocent face of his favourite child, smiling down upon himfrom the young Italian artist's canvas.
Then he caught sight of the letter, and saw that she was weeping.
An angry flash came into his eyes; the mincing dandyism gave place to asharp angular rigidity, and stepping quickly across the interveningspace that separated him from his child, he
was about to take the notefrom her hands.
Claire uttered a faint cry of alarm, started from the sofa, and hastilythrust the folded paper into her pocket.
"That letter," he said, stamping his foot, "give me that letter."
"No, no, I cannot, father," she cried, with a look of terror at his wornand excited face.
"I insist," he cried. "I will not allow these clandestinecorrespondences to be carried on. Give me the letter."
"Father, I cannot," she said firmly.
"Am I to take it from you by force?" he cried. "Am I, a gentleman whohas struggled all these years to make himself the model from