“Major Rockley’s servant to see you, miss.”

Claire started from her seat and looked at Footman Isaac with a troubled expression that was full of shame and dread.

She dropped her eyes on the instant as she thought of her position.

It was four o’clock, and the promenade on cliff and pier in full swing.  Her father would not be back for two hours, Morton was away somewhere, and it was so dreadful ­so degrading ­to be obliged to see her brother, the prodigal, in the servants’ part of the house.

For herself she would not have cared, but it was lowering her brother; and, trying to be calm and firm, she said: 

“Show him in here, Isaac.”

“In here, miss?”

“Yes.”

“Please ma’am, master said ­”

“Show him in here, Isaac,” said Claire, drawing herself up with her eyes flashing, and the colour returning to her cheeks.

The footman backed out quickly, and directly after there was the clink of spurs, and a heavy tread.  Then the door opened and closed, and Major Hockley’s servant, James Bell, otherwise Fred Denville, strode into the room; and Isaac’s retreating steps were heard.

“Fred!” cried Claire, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing the handsome bronzed face again and again.

“My darling girl!” he cried, holding her tightly to his breast, while his face lit up as he returned her caresses.

“Oh, Fred!” she said, as she laid her hands then upon his shoulders and gazed at him at arm’s length, “you’ve been drinking.”

“One half-pint of ale.  That’s all:  upon my soul,” he said.  “I say, I wish it were not wicked to commit murder.”

If he had by some blow paralysed her he could not have produced a greater change in her aspect, for her eyes grew wild and the colour faded out of her cheeks and lips.

“Don’t look like that,” he said, smiling.  “I shan’t do it ­at least, not while I’m sober; but I should like to wring that supercilious scoundrel’s neck.  He looks down upon me in a way that is quite comical.”

“Why did you come, dear?” said Claire sadly.  “Oh, Fred, if I could but buy you out, so that you could begin life again.”

“No good, my dear little girl,” he said tenderly.  “There’s something wrong in my works.  I’ve no stability, and I should only go wrong again.”

“But, if you would try, Fred.”

“Try, my pet!” he said fiercely; “Heaven knows how I did try, but the drink was too much for me.  If we had been brought up to some honest way of making a living, and away from this sham, I might have been different, but it drove me to drink, and I never had any self-command.  I’m best where I am; obliged to be sober as the Major’s servant.”

There was a contemptuous look in his eyes as he said this last.

“And that makes it so much worse,” sighed Claire with a sad smile.  “If you were only the King’s servant ­a soldier ­I would not so much mind.”

“Perhaps it is best as it is,” he said sternly.

“Don’t say that, Fred dear.”

“But I do say it, girl.  If I had been brought up differently ­Bah!  I didn’t come here to grumble about the old man.”

“No, no, pray, pray don’t.  And, Fred dear, you must not stop.  Do you want a little money?”

“Yes!” he cried eagerly.  “No!  Curse it all, girl, I wish you would not tempt me.  So you are not glad to see me?”

“Indeed, yes, Fred; but you must not stay.  If our father were to return there would be such a scene.”

“He will not.  He is on the pier, and won’t be back these two hours.  Where’s Morton?”

“Out, dear.”

“Then we are all right.  Did you expect me?”

“No, dear.  Let me make you some tea.”

“No; stop here.  Didn’t you expect this?”

He drew a note from his breast.

“That note?  No, dear.  Who is it from?”

Fred Denville looked his sister searchingly in the face, and its innocent candid expression satisfied him, and he drew a sigh full of relief.

“If it had been May who looked at me like that, I should have said she was telling me a lie.”

“Oh, Fred!”

“Bah!  You know it’s true.  Little wax-doll imp.  But I believe you, Claire.  Fate’s playing us strange tricks.  I am James Bell, Major Rockley’s servant, and he trusts me with his commissions.  This is a billet-doux ­a love-letter ­to my sister, which my master sends, and I am to wait for an answer.”

Claire drew herself up, and as her brother saw the blood mantle in her face, and the haughty, angry look in her eyes as she took the letter and tore it to pieces, he, too, drew himself up, and there was a proud air in his aspect.

“There is no answer to Major Rockley’s letter,” she said coldly.  “How dare he write to me!”

“Claire, old girl, I must hug you,” cried the dragoon.  “By George!  I feel as if I were not ashamed of the name of Denville after all.  I was going to bully you and tell you that my superior officer is as big a scoundrel as ever breathed, and that if you carried on with him I’d shoot you.  Now, bully me, my pet, and tell your prodigal drunken dragoon of a brother that he ought to be ashamed of himself for even thinking such a thing.  I won’t shrink.”

“My dear brother,” she said tenderly, as she placed her hands in his.

“My dear sister,” he said softly, as he kissed her little white hands in turn, “I need not warn and try to teach you, for I feel that I might come to you for help if I could learn.  There ­there.  Some day you’ll marry some good fellow.”

She shook her head.

“Yes, you will,” he said.  “Richard Linnell, perhaps.  Don’t let the old man worry you into such a match as May’s.”

“I shall never marry,” said Claire, in a low strange voice; “never.”

“Yes, you will,” he said, smiling; “but what you have to guard against is not the gallantries of the contemptible puppies who haunt this place, but some big match that ­Ah!  Too late!”

He caught a glimpse of his father’s figure passing the window, and made for the door, but it was only to stand face to face with the old man, who came in hastily, haggard, and wild of eye.

Fred Denville drew back into the room as his father staggered in, and then, as the door swung to and fastened itself, there was a terrible silence, and Claire looked on speechless for the moment, as she saw her brother draw himself up, military fashion, while her father’s face changed in a way that was horrible to behold.

He looked ten years older.  His eyes started; his jaw fell, and his hands trembled as he raised them, with the thick cane hanging from one wrist.

He tried to speak, but the words would not come for a few moments.

At last his speech seemed to return, and, in a voice full of rage, hate, and horror combined, he cried furiously: 

“You here! ­fiend! ­wretch! ­villain!”

“Oh, father!” cried Claire, darting to his side.

“Hush, Claire!  Let him speak,” said Fred.

“Was it not enough that I forbade you the house before; but, now ­to come ­to dare ­villain! ­wretch! ­coldblooded, miserable wretch!  You are no son of mine.  Out of my sight!  Curse you!  I curse you with all the bitterness that ­”

“Father! father!” cried Claire, in horrified tones, as she threw herself between them; but, in his rage, the old man struck her across the face with his arm, sending her tottering back.

“Oh, this is too much,” cried Fred, dropping his stolid manner.  “You cowardly ­”

“Cowardly!  Ha! ha! ha!  Cowardly!” screamed the old man, catching at his stick.  “You say that ­you?”

As Fred strode towards him, the old man struck him with his cane, a sharp well-directed blow across the left ear, and, stung to madness by the pain, the tall strong man caught the frail-looking old beau by the throat and bore him back into a chair, holding him with one hand while his other was clenched and raised to strike.