whichsociety is to take its stand, who has striven so hard for his children,to be disgraced by you?"
No answer.
"Heaven knows how I have struggled, and it seems that two of my childrenmust have been born with some base blood in their veins, and to be forever my disgrace."
Claire raised her eyes to his full of pitying wonder.
"See how your--no, God help me!" he cried wildly, "I dare not utter hisname. See how you have disgraced your married sister--lowered me in theeyes of society. I am almost ruined, and just at a time when I hadsucceeded in placing your brother well. And now, see here--see here!"
He tore a note from his breast, and held it out rustling in histrembling hand.
"Here--I will not punish you more by reading it aloud," he said; "but itis from my own son."
"From Fred?"
"Silence, woman!" cried Denville, with a wild look of agony in his eyes,and a ghastly pallor taking the place of the two feverish spots that hadstood in his cheeks. "I have no such son. He is an outcast. I forbidyou to mention his name again."
He stood quivering with a curious passion, his lips moving, his eyesstaring wildly, and he beat one hand with the open letter he held in theother.
"Here!" he exclaimed at last, "from Morton--to say that, under thecircumstances, he feels bound--for the sake of his own dignity andposition in his regiment, to hold aloof from his home. The regimentwill soon change quarters, and in time all this, he hopes, will beforgotten. Till then, all is to be at an end between us. This--from myown son."
He began to pace the room nervously, thrusting back the letter; and thenhe turned upon Claire again.
"Not content, you still go on. Clandestine correspondence. Let me seewho wrote that."
"I cannot, father."
"But I insist. Here, just when I had had your hand asked in marriage byone who is wealthy and noble, you disgrace us all by that shamelessmeeting. Give me the letter, I say."
In his rage he caught her by the arms, and she struggled with him andfell upon her knees at his feet.
"Am I to use force?" he cried.
"For your own sake, no. Father, the letter is not what you think. Foryour own peace of mind, let it stay."
His hands dropped to his sides at his daughter's wild appeal, and theconvulsed angry look once more gave place to the one of dread, as hedrew back a step.
"Tell me," he cried, still hesitating, "is it from that libertine, SirHarry Payne?"
"No, no!"
"From Rockley?"
"No, father. How can you think me so degraded--so low!"
"Then--then--"
"Father, for pity's sake!" she cried, as she crept to his knees andembraced them. "Can you not see how I am willing to bear everything tosave you pain? Has there not been agony and suffering enough in thishouse? You cannot think--you cannot believe. Is it not better that weshould let this rest?"
He raised his trembling hands to his lips in a nervous, excited way,looking searchingly and furtively by turns in his child's piteous face.The rage in his own had died out, to give place to the look of terror;and, as Claire clung to him, he now and again glanced at the door, as ifhe would flee from her presence.
"No, no," he said at last. "I was wrong. I will not see the letter.You have your secrets: I have mine. Claire, my child, there is a veil,drawn down by you, over that night's work. I dare not lift it, I darenot look."
"Once more, father," she said, "had we not better let it rest? I amcontent; I make no murmur against my fate."
"No," he said, flashing out again into anger; "but--hush!--stop!--I mustnot," he whispered hoarsely. "These strange fits. I cannot bear them."
He threw back and shook his head excitedly.
"I should go mad--I should go mad."
"Father!"
"There, I am calm again, my child. I am not myself sometimes. There--there--it is past."
He bent over and raised her to his breast, where she laid her head,uttering a piteous sigh.
"Stricken," he whispered; "stricken, my child. The workings of aterrible fate. Don't reproach--don't think ill of me, Claire. Some daythe light may come--no, no," he cried wildly; "better the darkness. Iam so weak--so torn by the agony I have endured. So weak, so pitiful aman; but, with all this wretched vanity and struggle for place, mymiserable heart has been so full of love for you all--for my littleMay."
Claire shivered.
"No, no," he cried excitedly. "Claire, my child, don't speak. Hush!listen, my child. There have been cases where, in self-abnegation--thesins of others--have been borne--by the innocent--the innocent! Oh, mychild, my child!"
His head dropped upon his daughter's shoulder, and he burst into a fitof sobbing, the outpourings of a flood of anguish that he fought vainlyto restrain.
"Father, dear father!" she whispered, as her arms tightened around him.
"Claire, my child--my child!"
"Yes," she said, as she seemed to be growing stronger and more firm;"your child--not your judge. Father, I see my duty clearly now. Yourhelp and comfort to the end."
Volume Two, Chapter XIX.
PEACE AND SYMPATHY.
"And I thought that there would be no more rest and comfort here, mychild. Claire, one night--"
"No, no, dearest," she cried, as she laid her soft white hand upon hislips; "the past cannot be recalled."
"Only this little revelation," he said, as he kissed the soft hand andheld it to his cheek, "then the past shall be as dead with us. Onenight--since that night--I said to myself that I could bear no more, andI locked myself in my room; but something seemed to stay my hand--asomething seemed to bid me live on, even in my pitiful, degraded state;and always--I cannot tell you how--your face seemed to be before myeyes. I tried to put it from me, but it was there. I fought againstit, for I was enraged with you one minute, trembling with dread of whatI dare not see the next; but still your face seemed to be there, mychild, and I said at last that I would live it down or face it, if thedread time that haunts me always, as if lying in my path, should at lastleap out."
"Father!"
"My child! There, there; we do not know how much we can bear until theburden is laid upon us; and now let us cleave together like soldiers inthe battle of life. Claire, child, we must live."
She sat holding his hand in hers, with her brow knit, and a far-off lookin her eyes.
"I am so old and broken," he said musingly; "so helpless. For so manyyears my miserable energies have been bent solely to this pitiful life,or I would say let us leave here at once, and go where we are not known,to live in some simple fashion; but--I know nothing. I cannot work."
"But I can, father," she said, with a look of elation in her eyes. "Iam young and strong, and I will work for you as you have worked for me.Let us go."
"Where, my child?" he said, as he kissed her hand tenderly. "What workwould you do--you, so beautiful, so unfit for the rough toil of life?"
"As a teacher--a governess," she cried; but he shook his head, and beganto tremble and draw her closer to him.
"No, no," he said excitedly; "that would mean separation; and Claire,"he whispered, "I am so weak--so broken--that I must have your youngspirit to sustain me. I cannot live without you. Left alone--no, no,no, I dare not be left alone."
"Hush, dear!" she said, laying her cheek upon his shoulder, and drawinghim to her breast, to soothe the agony of dread from which he suffered."I will not leave you, then, father, I will be your help and stay.Nothing shall separate us now."
"No, no." He whispered the words. "I could not live without you,Claire, and I dare not die. My miserable, useless life may prove usefulyet. Yes, my child, I feel it--I know it. My work is not yet done.Claire, my course is marked out for me; we must stay here till then."
"Till then, father?"
"Yes; and live it down. Yes, I am wanted here. You will help me?"
"Father, I am your child."
"Yes, yes," he cried, resuming his old flippant air so s
uddenly thatClaire, who did not realise the reaction that had set in, gazed at himtremblingly. "I shall live it down as of old. We must begin again, mydear, and those miserable, brainless butterflies will soon forget, andcome to me for my help and introductions. We must not leave here, andthe old fees will come once more."
Claire sighed.
"Yes, child, it would have been a happier life to have gone; but it isbraver to stay. Let your sweet face show in its dignity how lightly youtreat all slander and scandal. Some day, after all, you shall marrywell."
She did not reply,