Читать книгу The Master of the Ceremonies - George Manville Fenn - Страница 19

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.”

“No!” he cried, with a change coming over him; and he drew himself up as if her words had given him a sudden strength. “You must stay. You have duties here, and I have mine. Claire, you must stay, and it must be to you—to me, like some horrible dream. Some day you may learn the horrible temptations that beset my path. Till then I accept my fate, for I dare not confide more, even to you. Heaven help me in this horror, and give me strength!” he muttered to himself, with closed eyes. “I dare not die; I cannot—I will not die. I must wear the mask. Two lives to live, when heretofore one only has been so hard!”

Just then there was a quick step outside, and the tall figure of Morton Denville passed the window.

The Master of the Ceremonies glanced at Claire, who started to her feet, and then their eyes met.

“For his sake, Claire,” he whispered, “if not for mine.”

“For his sake—father,” she answered, slowly and reverently, as if it were a prayer; and then to herself, “and for yours—the duty I owe you as your child.”

“And I,” he muttered to himself, as he stood with a white hand resting upon the table. “I must bear it to the end. I must wear my mask as of old, and wilt Thou give me pardon and the strength?”

Morton entered the room fresh and animated, and his eyes lit up as he saw that it was occupied.

“That’s better!” he cried. “Morning, father,” and he clasped the old man’s hand.

“Good-morning, my dear boy,” was the answer, in trembling tones; and then, with the ghost of a smile on the wan lips, “have you been—”

Morton had boisterously clasped Claire in his arms, and kissed her with effusion; and as he saw the loving, wistful look in his child’s face, as she passionately returned the caress—one that he told himself would never again be bestowed on him—a pang shot through the old man’s breast, and the agony seemed greater than he could bear.

“So—so glad to see you down again, my dear, dear, dear old Sis,” cried Morton, with a kiss at almost every word. Then, half holding her still, he turned to the pale, wistful face at the other side of the room, and exclaimed:

“Yes, sir. Don’t be angry with me. I have been down again, catching dabs.”