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.”
Volume One – Chapter Nine.
Wearing His Mask
“Really, ladies, I – er – should – er – esteem it an honour, but my powers here are limited, and – ”
“Rubbish!”
“You’ll pardon me?”
“I say – rubbish, Denville.”
“Mamma, will you hold your tongue?”
“No, miss; if it comes to that, I won’t! Speaking like that to your own mother, who’s always working for you as I am, right out here on the open cliff, where goodness knows who mayn’t – ”
“Mother, be silent!”
“Silent, indeed!”
“Ladies, ladies, you’ll pardon me. I say my powers here are – er – very limited.”
“Yes, I know all about that, but you must get invitations for mamma and me for the next Assembly.”
“I’ll try, Miss Dean, but – you’ll pardon me – ”
“There, don’t shilly-shally with him, Betsy; it’s all business. Look here, Denville, the day the invitations come there’ll be five guineas wrapped up in silver paper under the chayny shepherdess on my droring-room mantelpiece, if you’ll just call and look under.”
“Really, Mrs Dean, you – you shock me. I could not think of – er – really – er – I will try my best.”
“That you will, I know, Mr Denville. Don’t take any notice of mamma I hope Miss Denville and Mrs Burnett are well.”
“In the best of health, Miss Dean, I thank you. I will – er – do my best. A lovely morning, Mrs Dean. Your humble servant. Miss Cora, yours. Good-morning.”
“A nasty old humbug; but he’ll have the invitations sent,” said Mrs Dean, a big, well-developed, well-preserved woman of fifty, with bright dark eyes that glistened and shone like pebbles polished by the constant attrition of the blinking lids.
“I wish you would not be so horridly coarse, mother; and if you don’t drop that ‘Betsy’ we shall quarrel,” said the younger lady, who bore a sufficient likeness to the elder for anyone to have stamped them mother and daughter, though the latter was wanting in her parent’s hardness of outline, being a magnificent specimen of womanly beauty. Dark and thoroughly classic of feature, large-eyed, full-lipped, perhaps rather too highly coloured, but this was carried off by the luxuriant black hair, worn in large ringlets flowing down either side of the rounded cheeks they half concealed, by her well-arched black brows and long dark lashes, which shaded her great swimming eyes. Her figure was perfect, and she was in full possession of the ripest womanly beauty, as she walked slowly and with haughty carriage along the cliff, beside the elder dame.
Both ladies were dressed in the very height of the fashion, with enormous wide-spreading open bonnets, heavy with ostrich plumes, tightly-fitting dresses, with broad waistbands well up under the arms, loose scarves, long gloves and reticules ornamented with huge bows of the stiffest silk, like Brobdingnagian butterflies.
“Horrid, coarse indeed! I suppose I mustn’t open my mouth next,” said the elder lady.
“It would be just as well not,” said the younger, “when we are out.”
“Then I shall open it as wide as I like, ma’am, and when I like, so now then, Betsy.”
“As you please; only if you do, I shall go home, and I shall not go to Assembly or ball with you. It was your wish that I should be Cora.”
“No, it wasn’t. I wanted Coral, or Coralie, miss.”
“And I preferred Cora,” said the younger lady with languid hauteur, as if she were practising a part, “and you are always blurting out Betsy.”
“Blurting! There’s a way to speak to your poor mother, who has made the lady of you that you are. Carriages and diamonds, and grand dinners, and – ”
“The smell of the orange peel, and the candles, and the memory of the theatre tacked on to me. ‘Actress!’ you can see every fine madam we pass say with her eyes, as she draws her skirt aside and turns from me as if I polluted the cliff. I’ve a deal to be proud of,” cried the younger woman fiercely. “For heaven’s sake, hold your tongue!”
“Don’t go on like that, Betsy – Cora, I mean, my dear. Let ’em sneer. If your poor, dear, dead father did keep a show – well, there, don’t bite me, Bet – Cora —theatre, and make his money, it’s nothing to them, and you’ll make a marriage yet, as’ll surprise some of ’em if you plays your cards proper!”
“Mother!”
“Say mamma, my dear, now; and do smooth down, my beauty. There, there, there! I didn’t mean to upset you. There’s Lord Carboro’ coming. Don’t let him see we’ve been quarrelling again. I don’t know, though,” she added softly, as she noticed her child’s heightened colour and heaving bosom; “it do make you look so ’andsome, my dear.”
“Pish!”
“It
