Fenn George Manville
The Master of the Ceremonies

“Yes, dearest,” she whispered; “I want you to forgive – ”

“May? Yes: she is forgiven. I forgive her, poor, weak child. Tell her that I had but tender words for her even now. I would send her messages, but of what avail would they be, even as the words of a dying man? No; she has not the stability. It is more her failing than her sin. You were asking me to forgive her.”

“I knew you forgave her, dearest, but I want you to forgive poor Fred.”

He started from her as if he had been stung.

“I saw him last night, and he begs and prays of you to forgive him and let him come. Father, he loves you in spite of all this estrangement.”

“Silence!” cried the old man furiously. “Have I not said that I would not hear his name?”

“Father dearest, what have I done?” cried Claire, as she gazed in terror at the convulsed features, at the claw-like hands, extended, clutching, and opening and shutting as the old man gasped for air.

“Father! Oh, help!”

A terrible purple colour suffused his face; his knotted veins started upon his temples, and it seemed as if he were about to fall in a fit; but the paroxysm began to pass away. He caught at Claire’s hand, and held by it while with his other he signed to her to be silent, for just then the clanking of bolts and locks was heard, and the door was thrown open to admit Richard Linnell and Mr Barclay.

Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen.
Under Barclay’s Shell

Denville grew composed at once, and taking Claire’s hand, stood up facing his visitors with a slight trace of the old manner returning, as he bowed and pointed to the stool and bed.

“Poor accommodation for visitors, gentlemen,” he said; “but it is the best I have to offer. Mr Barclay, Mr Linnell, will you be seated?”

“Couldn’t get to you before, Denville,” said the money-lender, shaking hands warmly. “Terrible business this. Miss Claire, my dear, the wife has gone to your house again. Taken some things with her; said she should stay.”

“Mr Denville, I am truly grieved,” said Linnell, offering his hand, after giving Claire a grave, sad look. “Mr Barclay and I have come to see of what service we can be to you.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Denville,” cried Barclay briskly. “Bad business, this, but – eh, Mr Linnell?”

“Miss Denville,” said the latter, turning to Claire, “as we are about to discuss business matters about counsel and your father’s defence, would you like to leave us?”

“No,” said Denville quickly, as he drew Claire’s hand through his arm, and shook his head. “You will pardon me, gentlemen, but in the little space of time I am allowed to see visitors, I should like to keep my child by my side. Gentlemen – Mr Barclay – Mr Linnell – half an hour ago I said that I had no friends. I was wrong – I thank you for coming. God bless you!”

“Why, of course you had friends, Denville,” cried Barclay. “You don’t suppose because a man’s hard and fast over money matters, that he has no bowels of compassion, do you? But now, business. About counsel for your defence?”

“I had already discussed the matter with my daughter, gentlemen. Counsel! It is useless. I need none.”

“Need none, Mr Denville?” cried Linnell quickly. “Pray think of what you are saying. You must have legal help.”

Claire darted a grateful look at Linnell, and then drew back with pain depicted in her countenance, mingled with pride and mortification as she saw the coldness in his manner towards her.

“I must repeat what I said, Mr Linnell,” said Denville in a low, pained voice. “I want no counsel. I will have none, but I thank you all the same, Mr Barclay. Claire, my child, you will pardon me. I must speak with Mr Barclay.”

Claire shrank into one corner of the cell, her brow drawn with the pain inflicted upon her as her father kept reverting to his old displays of deportment and mincing ways – ways that had become so habitual that even now, incongruous as they were, he could not quite throw them off.

“You need not go, Mr Linnell,” he continued, “that is if you will bear with the pain of listening to a dying man’s request. We have never been friends, sir, but I am your debtor now for your kindly act. My dear Barclay, the little drama of my poor life is nearly over; the curtain is about to fall. You have known me long – my little ambitious hopes and disappointments. I cannot say to my child there is a home for her with her sister; will you help her when – you know what I would say?”

“Denville, old fellow, I don’t know what to say to this,” said Barclay quickly. “It’s a mystery to me. Damn it, sir, I can’t believe you killed that old woman even now. I want to get you counsel who will clear you, sir, and throw the deed on to whoever did it – some one unknown.”

“Hush! – hush! Pray hush!” cried Denville, shuddering. “We are wasting time. Barclay – my daughter.”

“My dear old fellow,” said the money-lender quickly, “I told you that my wife had gone on to your place to see Miss Claire there. Don’t you be afraid for her. She has a friend in Mrs B who will never fail her. Friend? She will prove a mother. Don’t you trouble about Miss Claire. There’s only one obstacle to her having a happy home, and that’s me, and – ”

He stopped short, for his voice had turned husky, and gripping Denville’s hand very tightly, he held it for a few minutes.

“God bless her sweet face!” he whispered; “we never believed one of the miserable scandals about her, Denville. But now about yourself.”

Denville turned away his face, took a couple of steps to the side, and stood with his back to them for a few minutes. Then, turning, with his face wearing a curious look of calm, he laid his hand upon Barclay’s arm.

“You have taken away the bitterness of death, Barclay,” he said in a low voice. “Heaven help me for the weakest of men. I never knew who were my friends.”

“Then you will let us get counsel for you?”

“No, no! I forbid it,” said Denville sternly. “Good-bye, Mr Linnell. I thank you. Barclay, God bless you!”

His voice trembled as he pressed the money-lender’s hand, for the gaoler had opened the door, and was waiting to usher them out.

“Claire, my child,” he whispered, taking her in his arms, “you will come again. Good-bye now. Good-bye.”

She clung to him wildly for a few moments, and then, with a look of desolation in her eyes, slowly followed the gaoler and the other visitors along the echoing stone passages to the gate, where Linnell laid his hand upon her arm.

Before he could speak there was a rustle of a silk dress, a hurried panting as some one brushed by him, and a voluble voice exclaimed:

“They wouldn’t let me in, my dear, and I’ve been waiting for you to come. There, there, there, you and May are coming home along with me, and – ”

Her voice died away as Linnell stood there, feeling desolate and cold. There was an intense bitterness in his heart, as he told himself that his love for Claire was of a very poor type, that he had been ready to believe ill of her, and let that love become chilled. What had he done now that she was plunged into the very depths of despair? Almost held aloof when he would have given all he had – life itself – to save her from her pain.

“I am mad, jealous, weak, and contemptible,” he cried to himself at last. “I will go to her and tell her I love her more than ever. It is not too late.”

He had taken a step to follow, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and Barclay said huskily:

“There’s a woman for you, Mr Linnell, sir. I often think she ought to have had a better husband. There, the best thing is to let them alone together. You wouldn’t think it, Mr Linnell, with me, such a hard nut as I am, but this business has quit upset me. Good-day, sir, good-day.”

“Good-day, Mr Barclay,” said Linnell dreamily; and they were parting, when Barclay said in a low quick whisper:

“You may think of some way of helping the old fellow, Mr Linnell. If you do there’s any amount of money ready for the lawyers, if you give me a hint. For he’s an innocent man, sir. Kill that old woman? Pho! Pooh! Stuff! He couldn’t kill a cat!”

Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen.
Fred Denville Forward

“What do you say, my dear – another of those mad fits of excitement as soon as my name’s mentioned? Oh, it’s too bad. I don’t think I’ve ever been rake enough to deserve it. Well, whether or no, I must go and see him. I can’t stop away. I’m his eldest son, and a man’s a man even if he is a common soldier, and has disgraced himself in the eyes of society.”

“Fred dear, I’m broken-hearted,” sobbed Claire, as she nestled close to her brother, and hid her face in his breast, neither seeing nor hearing Mr and Mrs Barclay open the door and cross the room, the latter making a sign to the dragoon not to take any notice of them, and as soon as she was alone with her husband, saying indignantly:

“The scandalous old hags, making out that the poor dear was carrying on with a common soldier. Lor’! Jo-si-ah, what a little wickedness there would seem to be in the world if everything was properly explained.”

“Well, I don’t know so much about that,” replied Barclay. “Perhaps we should find out some of the very innocent ones were not so good as they seemed.”

“I shall go on at once and see the old man,” said Fred Denville, kissing his sister tenderly. “I can’t stop away. The old fellow will be calmer perhaps to-day; and, Claire, my girl, I’m going to try and get my discharge, and start a new life. It’s a strange thing if I can’t keep a home for you and take care of you. I can’t stand this soldiering any longer. Servant to that blackguard, Rockley! Has he spoken to you lately?”

“No, Fred,” said Claire wearily. “No.”

“I can’t stand it, girl. It’s a shame to talk of my beggarly troubles now, but it’s precious hard to be meeting one’s own brother – one’s superior officer – and him not to know me. Has Morton been to see father?”

“N-no, dear; not yet.”

“Curse him!”

“Fred! – dear Fred!”

“Well, no, I won’t curse him. It’s the boy’s training, not his nature. He ought not to cut the poor old man, though, in his disgrace. Claire, damn it all; I don’t believe father killed that old thing.”

He looked at his sister with a quick intelligent gaze, full of conviction; but as he met her full in the eyes, and saw the change that came over her countenance, the conviction seemed blunted, and he shuddered.

“She believes it!” he muttered. Then aloud: “Why, Claire!”

“Hush – don’t – don’t speak to me – don’t say anything,” she panted. “Fred, shall I be dragged before the judge and be forced to answer questions – horrible questions?”

He was silent.

“You believe I shall. You think I shall,” she panted. “Oh, Fred, Fred, I would sooner die.”

He drew a long breath, and looked at her in a horrified way, while she seemed to be growing wild with dread.

“I could not bear it,” she cried, “to go up before those people and condemn my own father. It would be too horrible. It would be against nature. I could not, I would not speak.”

“Hush, little sister,” said Fred tenderly. “You are growing wild. Perhaps you will not have to go. Perhaps they will find out the right man before the time – hush! – hush!”

Claire had uttered a piteous cry full of despair, as she buried her face in her hands.

“I cannot bear it – I cannot bear it,” she cried. “There, go – go and see him,” she said quickly. “You must go. It would be too cruel to stay away from him now he is so low in spirit. Be gentle with him, Fred, if he says hard things to you; and pray – pray don’t resent them. You will bear everything for my sake – say that you will.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Trouble and misery have made him irritable, and so that he hardly knows what he says at times.”

“Poor old fellow!” said the dragoon sadly. “Ah, Claire, my little girl, it did not want this trouble in our unhappy home.”

He kissed her very tenderly, and then, as if moved by some sudden impulse, he took her in his arms again and held her to his breast, whilst she clung to him as if he were her only hope, and so they remained in silence for a time.

At last he loosed himself from her embrace, and stood over her as she crouched down upon the sofa.

“I’m going there now, Claire,” he said, “but before I go, have you anything to say to me about that night of the murder? Is there anything I ought to know, so as to be able to talk to the old man about his defence? Will he tell me all he knows about the affair – why, Claire, child, what is the matter – are you going wild?”

He caught her two hands, and held her, startled by the change which had come over her, as she shrank from him in horror, with eyes dilated, face drawn and lips apart.

“There, my little girl,” he said, with rough tenderness, “I ought to have known better than to talk to you about it. Perhaps all will come right yet after all.”

Claire seemed to be so prostrated that it was some time before he attempted to leave her, and then it was upon her urging, for she seemed at last to rouse herself to action, and with feverish haste bade him go.

“It is your duty, Fred,” she said agitatedly, “but – but don’t question him – don’t say a word to him. Only go to him as the son to the father in terrible distress. Let him speak to you if he will.”

“But his defence, girl, his defence. Something must be done, and I am without a guinea in the world.”

“Mr Barclay – Mr Linnell are arranging that without his knowledge,” said Claire. “I had forgotten to tell you, Fred: my head seems confused and strange.”

“No wonder, little one,” he said. “Ah, I like that Barclay. One never knows who are our friends until trouble comes – and young Linnell. It isn’t a time to talk about such things now, Clairy; but young Linnell’s a good fellow, and he thinks a great deal of you.”

Claire joined her hands as if begging him to be silent, and he once more kissed her, and after begging Mrs Barclay to watch over her, hurried away.

Volume Three – Chapter Fifteen.
Father and Son

James Bell, dragoon, otherwise Fred Denville, the disgraced prodigal of the Master of the Ceremonies’ home, had a couple of shillings in his pocket as he strode towards the prison; and as he was on his way, low-spirited and despondent at the troubles of his house, a great thirst came upon him, and he felt that he could never go through the scene he had to encounter without a stimulant in some form.

Then he thought of what a curse drink was to him, and how he could not take one glass without wanting another, and many others, and with this thought he manfully passed the first public-house.

But, as he passed, the door was swung open, and the hot, spiritous odour of strong drinks floated out and half maddened him.

“Just one glass would tighten me up,” he muttered, “and I could go through with it better.”

He thought of his last interview with his father, their struggle, and how he had nearly struck him, and he shrank from what was to come.

“I can’t help it,” he said. “I must have a drop. It will steady a fellow’s nerves. Good God! how horrible to go and see that old man charged with murder.”

He had thought a great deal about it before, but now the whole affair struck him as if in a new light, and the examinations, the trial, and the following of that trial came upon him with a terrible force that frightened him. It had never seemed so horrible before, and he burst out in a cold perspiration as in imagination he saw the white bared head of the old man, with wild eyes and ghastly face – saw him in the grey of some chilly morning, pinioned and with the white-robed priest by his side, walking towards —

It was too horrible! A curious feeling of blind terror made him shiver and hurry on, as something seemed to whisper in his ear, “He did murder that wretched old woman, and he must suffer for his crime.”

“Curse me, I must have some brandy, or I shall never be able to face him,” he gasped, as he strode on, no longer the stern, upright, well-built cavalry soldier, but a bent, trembling man, at whom more than one passer-by looked askance. He even reeled, and albeit perfectly sober, he evoked comments upon “these drunken soldiers” in the streets.

“It is too horrible,” he said again. “I never saw it like this before;” and, hurrying on with unsteady step, he was making straight for a public-house he knew, when, on turning a corner, he suddenly encountered Major Rockley.

The meeting was so sudden that he had passed him before he remembered his duty to salute his superior; but the encounter brought with it a flood of recollections of the night of Mrs Pontardent’s party, and the remembrance of his helplessness, and of the pangs he had suffered as he awoke to the fact, as he believed, that the sister he almost worshipped was in the power of a relentless scoundrel. This cleared the mental fumes that were obscuring his intellect, and, drawing himself up, he strode on straight past the public-house door and on to the prison gates.

“It’s time I acted like a man,” he said to himself, “and not like a cowardly brute.”

He was provided with a pass, and, in ignorance of the fact that Rockley had turned and was watching him, following him, and standing at a distance till he saw him enter the gates, he rang, presented his paper, and was ushered along the blank stone passages of the prison till he reached the cell door.

“One minute,” whispered Fred, wiping the drops from his forehead, as a sudden trembling fit came over him. Then, mastering it, and drawing himself up, he breathed heavily and nodded to the gaoler.

“I’m ready,” he said hoarsely: “open.”

The next minute he was standing in the whitewashed cell with the door closed behind him, locked in with the prisoner and half choked with emotion, gazing down at the bent grey head.

For the Master of Ceremonies was seated upon a low stool, his arms resting upon his knees, and his hands clasped between them, probably asleep. He had not heard the opening and closing of the door, and if not asleep, was so deaf to all but his own misery that Fred Denville felt that he must go and touch him before he would move.

The young man’s breast swelled, and there was a catching in his breath as he looked down upon the crushed, despondent figure, and thought of the change that had taken place. The light from the barred window streamed down upon him alone, leaving the rest of the cell in shadow; and as Fred Denville gazed, he saw again the overdressed leader of the fashionable visitors mincing along the Parade, cane in one hand, snuff-box in the other, and the box changed to the hand holding the cane while a few specks of snuff were brushed from the lace of his shirt-front.

Then he looked back farther, and seemed to see the tall, important, aristocratic-looking gentleman, to whom people of quality talked, and of whom he always stood in such awe; and now, with this came the recollection of his boyish wonder how it was that his father should be so grand a man abroad while everything was so pinched and miserable at home.

Back flitted his thoughts as he stood there, looking down at the motionless figure, to the encounter when he had been surprised by his father with Claire. The terrible rage; the fit; the horrible hatred and dislike the old man had shown, and the unforgiving rancour he had displayed.

Fred Denville sighed as it all came back, but he felt no resentment now, for his breast was full of memories of acts of kindness that had been shown him as a boy, before he grew wild and resisted the paternal hand, preferring the reckless soldier’s life to the irksome poverty and pretence of the place-seeker’s home and its pinching and shams.

“Poor old dad!” he said to himself, as the tears stood in his eyes; “he is brought very low. Misery makes friends. God help him now!”

The stalwart dragoon, moved by his emotion, took a couple of quick steps forward and went down upon one knee by the old man’s side, took his hands gently in both of his own, and held them in a firm, strong clasp, as he uttered the one word —

“Father!”

The touch and the voice seemed to galvanise the prisoner, who started upright, gazing wildly at his son, and then shrank back against the wall with his hands outstretched to keep him off.

There was a terrible silence for a space, during which Fred Denville remained upon his knee, then slowly joining his hands as he looked pleadingly in his father’s face, he said slowly:

“Yes, I know I have been a bad son; I have disgraced you. But, father, can you not forgive me now?”

The old man did not speak, but shrank against the wall, looking upon him with loathing.

“Father,” said Fred again, “you are in such trouble. It is so dreadful. I could not stay away. Let us be friends once more, and let me help you. I will try so hard. I am your son.”

Again there was that terrible silence, during which the old man seemed to be gathering force, and the look of horror and loathing intensified as he glared at the man humbling himself there upon his knee.

“Do you not hear me?” cried Fred, piteously. “Father: I am your son.”

“No!” exclaimed Denville, in a low, hoarse whisper that was terrible in its intensity. “No: you are no son of mine. Hypocrite, villain – how dare you come here to insult me in my misery?”

“Insult you, father!” said Fred softly. “No, no, you do not know me. You do not understand what brings me here.”

“Not know? – not understand?” panted Denville, still in the same hoarse whisper, as if he dreaded to be heard. “I tell you I know all – I saw all. It was what I might have expected from your career.”

“Father!”

“Silence, dog! Oh, that I had strength! I feel that as I gave you the life you dishonour, I should be doing a duty to take you by the throat, and crush it out from such a wretch.”

“He’s mad,” thought the young man as he gazed on the wild distorted face.

“You thought that you were unseen – that your crime was known but to yourself; but such things cannot be hidden, such horrors are certain to be known. And now, wretch, hypocrite, coward, you have brought me to this, and you come with your pitiful canting words to ask me for pardon – me, the miserable old man whom you have dragged down even to this – a felon’s cell from which I must go to the scaffold.”

“No – no, father,” panted Fred. “Don’t – for God’s sake, don’t talk like this. I’ve been a great blackguard – a bad son; but surely you might forgive me – your own flesh and blood, when I come to you on my knees, in sorrow and repentance, to ask forgiveness, and to say let me try and help you in your distress. Come, father – my dear old father – give me your hand once more. Let the past be dead, for Claire’s sake, I ask you. I am her brother – your boy.”

“Silence! Wretch!” cried the old man. “Leave this place. Let me at least die in peace, and not be defiled by the presence of such a loathsome, cowardly thing as you.”

“And you,” said Fred softly, as he held out his hands; “you, I can remember it well, used to hold these hands together, father, and teach me to say, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.’ Father, have I sinned so deeply as all this?”

“Sinned!” cried the old man starting forward, and catching his son by the throat. “Sinned? Blasphemer! coward! hypocrite! You dare to say this to me! Go, before I try to strangle you, for I cannot contain myself when you are here.”

“Father!” cried Fred, kneeling unresisting as the old man clasped him tightly by the throat, “are you mad?”

“Would to God I were before I had lived to see this day,” cried Denville, still in the same hoarse whisper. “But go – I have done ill enough in my wretched life without adding murder to the wrong. Go, and coward that you are, escape to some far-off land where your crime is not known, and there try and repent, if you can. No, there can be no repentance for the coward who destroys one wretched, helpless life, and then to save his own worthless body – he can have no soul – sends his poor, worn-out, broken father to the scaffold.”

Fred did not move, but gazed pityingly in his father’s face.

“You cannot be a man,” continued Denville, “a man as other men. You do not speak – you do not speak. Fool! Murderer! Do you think that your crime was not known?”

Fred still remained silent, gazing in the convulsed face, with the veins in the temples throbbing, the eyes glaring wildly, and the grey hairs seeming to rise and move.

“Speak, since you have forced it upon me, though I would have gone to the scaffold without a word, praying that my sacrifice might expiate my own child’s crime. Speak, I say: do you still think it was not known?”

Fred Denville remained upon his knees, but neither spoke nor resisted.

“I tell you that when I awoke to the horrors of that night, I said to myself, ‘He is my own son – my own flesh and blood – I cannot speak. I will not speak. I will bear it.’ And I have borne it – in silence. Wretch that you are – listen. I have, to screen you, borne all with my lips sealed, and let that sweet, pure-hearted girl shrink from me, believing – God help me! – that mine was the hand that crushed out yon poor old creature’s life.”

“Father, you are raving,” cried Fred hoarsely.

“Raving! It is true. Claire, my own darling, has gone, too, with sealed lips, loathing me, and only out of pity and belief in her duty as a child borne with my presence – poor sweet suffering saint – believing me a murderer, and I dare not tell her I was innocent, and that it was the brother she loved, who had come in the night, serpent-like, to the room he knew so well, to murder, and to steal those wretched bits of glittering glass.”

“My dear father!”

“Silence, wretch!” cried Denville. “I tell you, knowing all, I said that I could not speak, for I was only a broken old man, and that my son might repent; that I could not condemn him and be his judge. And, my God! it has come to this! I have borne all. I have suffered maddening agony as I have seen the loathing in my poor child’s eyes. I have borne all uncomplaining, and when, as I dreaded, the exposure came, I unmurmuringly suffered myself to be taken, and I will go to the scaffold and die, a victim – an innocent victim for you, so that you may live; but let me die in peace. Free me from your presence, and I will wait till, in a better world, my darling can come and say, ‘Forgive me, father; I was blind.’”

“Heaven help me! What shall I say?” muttered Fred. “Poor old fellow! It has turned his brain.”

The old man was in the act of throwing him off and shrinking from him when Fred caught his hands.

“My dear old father,” he said tenderly, “neither Claire nor I believe that you could commit this terrible crime. You must be cleared from all suspicion, and – come – come – let us be friends. You will forgive me, father – all the past?”

“Forgive you? No, I cannot. It is impossible. I have tried. Sitting here alone in this awful silence, with the shadow of the gallows falling across me, I have tried, but it is impossible. I will suffer for your crime. I have told you that I will, but upon one condition, that you never go near Claire again. She thinks me guilty, but she has fought hard and striven to forgive me. Do not pollute her with your presence, but go far away from here. Go at once, lest in the weakness of my nature I should be tempted to try and save myself from death by confessing all.”

“Heaven help me!” said Fred again; “he is mad.”

He had spoken aloud, shaping his thoughts unconsciously, and the old man took up his words.

“God help me! I wish I were,” he said pitifully, “for the mad must be free from the agony which I have to bear.”

Fred rose to his feet and looked at the old man aghast. Then, as if for the first time, he seemed to realise that his father was not wandering in his mind, and clasping the thin arms tightly, he pressed him back into a sitting position upon the bed, bending over him, and, in his great strength, holding him helplessly there, as he said quickly, and with a fierce ring in his voice:

“Why, father, do you know what you are saying? You do not think I killed Lady Teigne?”

“Hypocrite!” cried the old man fiercely.

“Speak out, man!” cried Fred, as fiercely now. “What do you mean? How dare you charge me with such a crime!”

“Hypocrite!” panted the old man again. “You cannot shield yourself now. It is a punishment for my weakness that day – that night. I would not have done it,” he cried wildly, “but I was at my last gasp for money. Everything was against me. I had not a shilling, and there all that day the devil was dancing the jewels of that miserable old woman before my eyes.”

“Father!” cried Fred, “for God’s sake, don’t tell me you killed her – for God’s sake don’t. No, no; it is not true.”

“Silence! hypocrite! murderer!” cried the old man. “Listen. I tell you that all that day the devil was dancing those diamonds before my eyes. I saw them in the glittering waters of the sea. I turned to Claire, and her eyes shone like diamonds. The night came, and the sky was all studded with gems, and they were sparkling and reflected in the water. Diamonds – always diamonds; and above stairs, in that room, a casket with necklet and bracelets, all diamonds, and the devil always whispering in my ear that I had but to get two or three taken out and replaced with paste, while I pledged the real stones for a few months, and redeemed them as soon as I could turn myself round. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you,” said Fred, with a strange look of horror intensifying in his face.

“I fought against the temptation. I struggled with it, as I said that I had always been a weak, foolish fashion-seeker, but an honest gentleman. I swore that I would not defile myself by such a crime; but there were my bills; there was the demand for money for a score of pressing necessities, and the fiend whispered to me that it would not be a crime, only taking them from that miserable old worldly creature as a loan.”

“Go on,” said Fred hoarsely; “go on.” And he stared with horror in the old man’s upturned face.

“Then the night came, and my children went to their beds innocent of the agony I suffered, for there was the temptation stronger than before. I went to my room, and looked out. The sea and sky were all diamonds; and I tore back the blind, and I said that I must have two or three of the wretched stones – that I would have them – borrow them for a time, and be free.”