George Fenn - The Master of the Ceremonies

Was she to speak and tell all she knew?

Was she to be silent?

All she could do was to shrink within herself, and try to make everything pass out of her thoughts while she was sinking into the icy chains of idiocy.

But now, when she had been giving up completely, and at times gazing out to sea with horrible thoughts assailing her, and suggestions like temptations to seek for oblivion as the only escape from the agony she suffered, the life-raft had reached her hands, and she clung to it with all the tenacity of one mentally drowning fast.

There was something soothing in the very sound of her brother’s rough voice speaking in a hoarse whisper; and his selfish repinings over the petty discomforts he had suffered came like words of comfort and rest.

“It has been so jolly blank and miserable downstairs,” he went on as he held her, and involuntarily rocked himself to and fro. “Ike and Eliza have been always gossiping at the back and sneaking out to take dinner or tea or supper with somebody’s servants, so as to palaver about what’s gone on here.”

A pause.

“There’s been scarcely anything to eat. I’ve been half-starved.”

“Oh, Morton, my poor boy!”

Those were the first words Claire had uttered since the inquest, and they were followed by a fresh burst of sobs.

“Oh, come, come. Do leave off,” he cried pettishly. “I say it’s all very well for the old man to growl at me for fishing, but if I hadn’t gone catching dabs and a little conger or two, I should have been starved.”

She raised her face and kissed him. Some one else was suffering, and her woman’s instinct to help was beginning to work.

“What do you think I did, Sis? Oh, you don’t know. I’d been up to Burnett’s to see May, but the beggars had sneaked off and gone to London. Just like Franky Sneerums and wax-doll May. Pretty sort of a sister to keep away when we’re in trouble.”

“Oh, don’t, my dear boy,” whispered Claire in a choking voice.

“Oh, yes, I shall. They’re ashamed of me and of all of us. Just as if we could help the old girl being killed here.”

A horrible spasm ran through Claire.

“Don’t jump like that, stupid,” said Morton roughly. “You didn’t kill her.”

“Hush! hush!”

“No, I shan’t hush. It’ll do you good to talk and hear what people say, my pretty old darling Sis. There, there hush-a-bye, baby. Cuddle up close, and let’s comfort you. What’s the matter now?”

Claire had struggled up, with her hands upon his shoulders, and was gazing wildly into his eyes.

“What – what do people say?” she panted.

“Be still, little goose – no; pretty little white pigeon,” he said, more softly, as he tried to draw her towards him.

“What – do they say?” she cried, in a hoarse whisper, and she trembled violently.

“Why, that it is a jolly good job the old woman is dead, for she was no use to anyone.”

Claire groaned as she yielded once more to his embrace.

“Fisherman Dick says – I say, he is a close old nut there’s no getting anything out of him! – says he don’t see that people like Lady Teigne are any use in the world.”

“Morton!”

“Oh, it’s all right. I’m only telling you what he said. He says too that the chap who did it – I say, don’t kick out like that, Sis. Yes, I shall go on: I’m doing you good. Fisherman Dick, and Mrs Miggles too, said that I ought to try and rouse you up, and I’m doing it. You’re ever so much better already. Why, your hands were like dabs when I came up, and now they are nice and warm.”

She caressed his cheek with them, and he kissed her as she laid her head on his shoulder.

“Dick Miggles said that the diamonds would never do the chap any good who stole ’em.”

Once more that hysterical start, but the boy only clasped his sister more tightly, and went on:

“Dick says he never knew anyone prosper who robbed or murdered, or did anything wrong, except those who smuggled. I say, Sis, I do feel sometimes as if I should go in for a bit of smuggling. There are some rare games going on.”

Claire clung to him as if exhausted by her emotion.

“Dick’s been in for lots of it, I know, only he’s too close to speak. I don’t know what I should have done if it hadn’t been for them. I’ve taken the fish I’ve caught up there, and Polly Miggles has cooked them, and we’ve had regular feeds.”

“You have been up there, Morton?” said Claire wildly.

“Yes; you needn’t tell the old man. What was I to do? I couldn’t get anything to eat here. I nursed the little girl for Mrs Miggles while she cooked, and Dick has laughed at me to see me nurse the little thing, and said it was rum. But I don’t mind; she’s a pretty little tit, and Dick has taught her to call me uncle.”

It was the next morning that the Master of the Ceremonies made his effort, and went down to the breakfast-room, where he sat by the table, playing with the newspaper that he dared not try to read, and waiting, wondering, in a dazed way, whether his son or his daughter would come in to breakfast.

The paper fell from his hands, and as he sat there he caught at the table, drawing the cloth aside and holding it with a spasmodic clutch, as one who was in danger of falling.

For there was the creak of a stair, the faint rustle of a dress, and he knew that the time had come.

He tried to rise to his feet, but his limbs refused their office, and the palsied trembling that had attacked him rose to his hands. Then he loosened his hold of the table, and sank back in his chair, clinging to the arms, and with his chin falling upon his breast.

At that moment the door opened, and Claire glided into the room.

She took a couple of steps forward, after closing the door, and then caught at the back of a chair to support herself.

The agony and horror in his child’s face, as their eyes met, galvanised Denville into life, and, starting up, he took a step forward, extending his trembling hands.

“Claire – my child!” he cried, in a husky voice.

His hands dropped, his jaw fell, his eyes seemed to be starting, as he read the look of horror, loathing, and shame in his daughter’s face, and for the space of a full minute neither spoke.

Then, as if moved to make another effort, he started spasmodically forward.

“Claire, my child – if you only knew!”

But she shrank from him with the look of horror intensified.

“Don’t – don’t touch me,” she whispered, in a harsh, dry voice. “Don’t: pray don’t.”

“But, Claire – ”

“I know,” she whispered, trembling violently. “It is our secret. I will not speak. Father – they should kill me first; but don’t – don’t. Father – father – you have broken my heart!”

As she burst forth in a piteous wail in these words, the terrible involuntary shrinking he had seen in her passed away. The stiff angularity that had seemed to pervade her was gone, and she sank upon her knees, holding by the back of the chair, and rested her brow upon her hands, sobbing and drawing her breath painfully.

He stood there gazing down at her, but for a time he did not move. Then, taking a step forward, he saw that she heard him, and shrank again.

“Claire, my child,” he gasped once more, “if you only knew!”

“Hush! – for God’s sake, hush!” she said, in a whisper. “Can you not see? It is our secret. You are my father. I am trying so hard. But don’t – don’t – ”

“Don’t touch you!” he cried slowly, as she left her sentence unspoken. “Well, be it so,” he added, with a piteous sigh; “I will not complain.”

“Let it be like some horrible dream,” she said, in the same low, painful whisper. “Let me – let me go away.”