The Master of the Ceremonies

That was the unkindest act of all, for the boy had seen her, and was about to nod and smile, forgetful in the elation produced by several glasses of wine, of the cause of offence between them; but, taking his cue from the lady on his arm, he drew himself up stiffly and passed on.

The tears rose to Claire’s eyes, but she mastered her emotion, as she saw Major Rockley on the other side of the room, keenly observant of all that had passed; and to hide her grief she went on talking to the gentleman who had just solicited her hand for the next dance.

Richard Linnell passed her soon afterwards with Cora upon his arm, and a jealous pang shot through her; but it passed away, and she resigned herself to her position, as if she had suffered so many pangs of late that her senses were growing blunted, and suffering was becoming easier to her.

Morton Denville was dismissed soon after in favour of Sir Matthew Bray; and, in his boy-like excitement, looked elated one moment as the half-fledged officer of dragoons, annoyed and self-conscious the next, as he kept seeing his father bowing and mincing about the rooms, or caught sight of his sister, whom he shunned.

It was a miserable evening, he thought, and he wished he had not come.

Then he wondered whether he looked well, for he fancied that the Adjutant had smiled at him.

A minute later he was thinking that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and this enjoyment he found in a glass of Mrs Pontardent’s champagne.

The dancing went on; so did the flirting in the saloons and in the garden, which was brilliant in front of the windows, deliciously dark and love-inspiring down the shady walks, for there the strains of the band came in a sweetly subdued murmur that the young officers declared was intoxicating, a charge that was misapplied.

The play grew higher as the night wore on, the conversation and laughter louder, the dancing more spirited, and the party was at its height when Mrs Pontardent, in obedience to an oft-repeated look from Major Rockley, walked up to him slowly, and took his arm.

“My dear Major: what a look!” she said banteringly. “You met the handsome youth, and you shot him. After that you ought to be friends, whereas I saw you exchange a look with poor Mr Linnell that was only excelled by the one you gave Colonel Mellersh.”

“Damn Colonel Mellersh!” said Rockley savagely.

“By all means,” said the lady mockingly; “but not in my presence, please.”

“Don’t talk twaddle,” exclaimed Rockley, as they passed out of the drawing-room window and across the lawn.

It so happened that Cora Dean had been dancing with a handsome young resident of the place, and, after the dance, he had begged her to take a stroll with him out in the grounds.

“No, no,” she said, amused by the impression made upon his susceptible nature; “that means taking cold.”

“I assure you, no,” he exclaimed rather thickly. “It’s warm and delightful outside. Just one walk round.”

She was about to decline, when she caught Richard Linnell’s eyes fixed upon her and her companion, and, urged by a feeling of coquetry, and a desire to try and move him to speak to her, if it were only to reproach, she took the offered arm, and, throwing a lace scarf over her head, allowed her partner to lead where he would, and that was naturally down one of the darkest grass alleys of the grounds.

“Do you know, Miss Dean,” he began thickly, “I never saw a girl in all my life who – ”

“Can we see the sea from the grounds here?” said Cora.

“Yes; lovely view,” he said. “Down here;” and he led her farther from the house. “There, you can see the sea from here, but who would wish to see the sea when he could gaze into the lovely eyes of the most – ”

“Is not that an arbour?” said Cora, as they stood now in one of the darkest parts of the garden.

“Yes. Let’s sit down and have a talk, and – ”

“Will you lead the way?” said Cora.

“Yes; give me your hand – eh – why – what dooce! She’s given me the slip. Oh, ’pon my soul, I’ll pay her for that.”

He started back towards the house, passing close by Cora, who had merely stepped behind a laurustinus, and who now went in the other direction, along a grass path at the back of the lawn.

Her white satin slippers made not the slightest sound, and she was about to walk straight across the lawn and out into the light, when a low, deep murmur reached her ear, and she recognised the voice.

“Major Rockley,” she said to herself. “Who is he with?”

Her jealous heart at once whispered “Claire!”

“If I could but bring Richard face to face with them now!” she thought, “he would turn to me after all.”

She hesitated, for the thought of the act being dishonourable struck her; but in her mental state, and with her defective education, she was not disposed to yield to fine notions of social honour; and, with her heart beating fast, she hurried softly along the grass, to find herself well within hearing of the speakers.

The words she heard were not those of love, for they were uttered more in anger. It was at times quite a quarrel changing to the tone of ordinary conversation.

Cora glanced behind her, to see the brightly lit-up house and hear the strains of music and the sounds of laughter and lively remark, while, by contrast with the glow in that direction, the bushes amid which she stood and into which she peered seemed to be the more obscure.

There was a pause, and then a woman’s voice said quickly:

“No, no; I cannot. You must not ask me, indeed.”

A curious feeling of disappointment came over Cora, for her plan was crushed on the instant. What were other people’s love affairs to her?

She was turning away with disgust, when the deep voice of the Major said quickly, and in a menacing way which rooted the listener to the spot:

“But I say you shall. One word from me, and you might have to leave Saltinville for good. I mean for your own good.”

“Oh, Rockley!”

“I don’t care; you make me mad. Here have I done you endless little services, helped you to live in the style you do; and the first little favour I ask of you, I am met with a flat refusal.”

“I don’t like to refuse you, but the girl is – ”

“Well, you know what the girl is. Hang it all, Pont, should I ask you if it were not as I say – unless it were that rich heiress I am to carry off some day.”

“And the sooner the better.”

“Yes, yes; but time’s going. It’s now eleven, and I must strike while the iron’s hot.”

“But, Rockley – ”

“More opposition? What the devil do you mean?”

“I don’t like to be mixed up with such an affair.”

“You will not be mixed up with it. No one will know but our two selves.”

“My conscience goes against such a trap.”

“Your conscience!” he hissed angrily.

“Well, and do you suppose I have none? The girl is too good. I like her. It is a shame, Rockley.”

Cora Dean’s heart beat as if it would suffocate her, while her mouth felt dry and her hands moist. She could hardly have moved to save her life. She knew what it was, she felt sure. It was a plot against Claire, and if it were —

Cora Dean did not finish her thought, but listened as Rockley spoke again.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Four.

Too Late

“How long has the fair Pontardent taken to the nursing up of scruples?”

“Do you suppose a woman is all evil?” was the retort. “You men make us bad enough, but you cannot kill all the good. I say it is a shame.”

“A shame!” said Rockley derisively. “Ha, ha, ha! What a woman you are! You don’t know what has taken place. I tell you this; she is mine. All she wants is the excuse and opportunity that she finds to-night with me. The old man watches her like a hawk.”

“Is this really so, Rockley?”

“On my honour. I should not have done what I have if she were not willing. I’ve a chaise and four waiting outside the lower gate behind here.”

“You have?”

“It has been there this half hour, and we are only waiting for our opportunity. Now then, will you help me?”

“Well,” said Mrs Pontardent hesitating, “if it is that – ”

“It is like that, I tell you; but she wants it to appear that she had no hand in it, to keep up the fiction. You see?”

“Yes,” said the woman, rather hoarsely; “but I don’t like it, Rockley.”

“Friends or enemies? – one word?” he said sternly.

“Friends,” she said quickly. “What am I to do?”

“Go back at once, and get hold of young Denville. He’s half-tipsy somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“Tell him he has shamefully neglected his sister, and that he is to take her out in the garden for a walk straight down the broad grass path, and beg her pardon.”

“But – ”

“Not a word. Do what I say. The boy will obey you like a sheep dog.”

“And then?”

“What then? That is all.”

“But, Rockley, no violence.”

“Bah! Rubbish! Do as I bid you. I shall push the boy into a bush; that’s all.”

There was a dead silence.

“Must I do this, Rockley?”

“Yes, you must. Go at once. You shall not be mixed in the affair at all. No one can blame you, for the boy is too tipsy to recollect anything to-morrow. Now go.”

There was a rustle of a dress, and Cora had just time to draw out of sight as Mrs Pontardent passed her.

Cora heard her voice as she went by. It was almost like a sigh, but the words were articulate, and they were:

“God forgive me! It is too bad.”

What to do?

Cora stood motionless, her pulses beating furiously, and the blood surging to her brain, and seeming to keep her from thinking out some plan.

Major Rockley – the cruel, insolent libertine – had a post-chaise waiting; by a trick Claire was to be got out, and down the broad walk, led like a sheep to the slaughter by her weak, half-tipsy brother, and then carried off. The plan seemed to Cora devilish in its cunning, and the flush of her ardent blood intoxicated her with a strange feeling of excitement – a wild kind of joy.

It was all for her. Claire away – carried off, or eloped with Rockley, Richard Linnell would rage for a week, and then forget her. Poor fellow! How he had struggled to hide that limp, and how handsome he looked. How she loved him – her idol – who had saved her life. He would be hers now, hers alone, and there would be no handsome, sweet-voiced rival in the way to win him to think always of her soft, grey, loving eyes – so gentle, so appealing in their gaze, that they seemed to be looking out of the darkness at her now.

Yes, there they were so firm and true – so softly appealing, and yet so full of womanly dignity that, as she hated her, so at the same time she loved.

“And in perhaps half an hour she would be away – on the road to London – in the Major’s arms.”

“And Richard Linnell will be free to love me, and me alone?”

She said it aloud, and then tore at her throat, for a thought came that made the blood surge up and nearly suffocate her.

“Why, he would curse me if he knew, and loathe me to his dying day.”

She took a few hasty steps forward, and then staggered and stopped short.

“I must have been mad!” she panted. “Am I so bad as that?”

She hurried towards the house, and narrowly missed her late partner as she reached one of the windows.

Thank heaven! she was not too late. There sat Claire where she had left her. No: it was some other lady.

She hurried in as quickly as she could without exciting notice.

Where was Claire?

She went from room to room, but she was not visible.

Where was Richard Linnell?

Nowhere to be seen.

If she could find Colonel Mellersh, or Mr Barclay – but no; there was not a soul she knew, and from different parts of the room men were approaching her, evidently to ask her to dance.

She escaped into another saloon, and there was Denville.

She took a few steps towards him, but he hurried away as if to attend to a call from their hostess, who was smiling at the end of the room. The next moment Cora saw her take the arm of the Master of the Ceremonies and go through a farther door.

Impossible to speak to him now. It was as if Mrs Pontardent had divined the reason of her coming, and was fighting against her with all her might.

Another gentleman approached, but she shrank away nervously, expecting each moment to see again her companion of the dark walk.

All at once, to her great joy, she caught sight of Mrs Barclay, looking in colour like a full-blown cabbage-rose, and exhaling scent.

She hurried up to the plump pink dame, to be saluted with:

“Ah, my dear, how handsome you do look to-night!”

“Where’s Claire Denville?” cried Cora huskily.

“Claire, my dear? Oh, she was with me ever so long, but she has just gone down the grounds.”

A spasm seemed to shoot through Cora Dean as she said to herself: “Too late!”

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Five.

Mellersh is Convinced

“Well, Dick,” said Mellersh, as he sought Linnell out, after a stroll round the rooms in search of Cora Dean, “how long are you going to keep yourself on the gridiron?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Then I shall not try to explain.”

“Have you seen anything?”

“N-no.”

“Don’t hesitate, man; you have?”

“No, Dick, no. Of course, I’ve seen a certain young lady, and I’ve seen Rockley hanging about.”

“Well, that proves nothing, does it?”

“My dear Dick, why should I waste my breath on a man in your condition?”

“My condition, you wretched old cynic? You never knew what it was to love.”

“Wrong. I have loved, and I am in love now.”

“You? You?”

“Yes, my boy, and with a woman who cares for somebody else; but I don’t go stalking about like a tragedy hero, and rolling my eyes and cursing the whole world. If I cannot have the moon, I shall not cry for it.”

“Hist! There goes Rockley.”

“Well, let him go.”

Richard Linnell made no reply, but quietly followed the Major.

“I mustn’t let them meet without me there,” thought Mellersh. “The scoundrel might hit him badly next time.”

He strode off after Richard Linnell, but missed him, and it was quite half an hour before they met again.

“I have been about the gate,” said Richard hoarsely. “There is no post-chaise there.”

“Then it is a hoax.”

“No; I cannot think that it is. Rockley is yonder, and he is watching about in a curious, restless way that means something.”

“Where is he?”

“Over there by the saloon window.”

“Oh, my dear Dick, I am hungry for a good hand at whist, and to win a little Philistine gold, and here you keep me hanging about after you, looking for a mare’s nest.”

“I can’t stop,” said Linnell. “Where shall I find you if I want you?”

“Here, on this seat, under this bush, smoking a cigar. No; I’ll stick by you, my lad.”

They went off together, and, going straight up to the window pointed out by Linnell, found that Rockley was not there.

“I left him there, I’ll swear,” said Linnell savagely. “No, don’t let us separate; I may want you.”

“Quite right; and I may want you,” replied Mellersh.

They walked hastily round, looking in at window after window, but there was no sign of Rockley. The throng of guests were dancing, playing, or conversing, and the scene was very brilliant; but the tall, dark officer of the dragoons was the only one of his party that they could not see.

“Mellersh,” exclaimed Linnell suddenly, “with all my watchfulness, I seem to have failed.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Claire!”

“Claire? Why, I saw her seated on that rout-chair five minutes ago.”

“Yes; but she has gone.”

“Quick, then – down to the gate! We must see them there.”

“Unless they have passed through,” said Linnell, with a groan. “I ought not to have left the entrance.”

“Don’t talk,” said Mellersh, almost savagely now, he seemed so moved from his ordinary calm. “I don’t want to think you are right, Dick, but I begin to be suspicious at last.”

They hurried down to the gate, where a knot of servants were chatting, the lights from the carriage-lamps glistening in polished panels and windows, and throwing up the gay liveries of the belaced footmen waiting.

“Has any one passed through here lately?” said Mellersh sharply.

“No, sir,” was chorused.

“Not a lady and gentleman?”

“No, sir – yes, about half an hour ago Colonel Lascelles and the doctor at the barracks went out together.”

“But no lady and gentleman separately or together?”

“No, sir.”

“No carriage?”

“No, sir,” said the footman who had acted as spokesman.

“Only wish they would,” grumbled a coachman from his box close by the gate.

“We are in time,” said Mellersh, and Linnell breathed more freely as he took up a position in the shade of a great clump of evergreens just inside the gate.

“Have you any plan?” said Mellersh, after a few minutes’ waiting, during which time the servants, gathered in a knot, were at first quiet, as if resenting the presence of the two gentlemen. Then their conversation began again, and the watchers were forgotten.

“Plan? Yes,” said Linnell. “I shall take her from him, and not leave her until she is in her father’s care.”

“Humph! That means mischief, Dick.”

“Yes; for him, Mellersh. I shall end by killing that man.”

Mellersh was silent, and the minutes glided by.

“I can’t bear this,” said Linnell at last. “I feel as if there is something wrong – that he has succeeded in getting her away. Mellersh! man! why don’t you speak? Here, come this way.”

Mellersh followed as his companion walked to the gate.

“Is there a servant of Mrs Pontardent’s here?”

“Yes, sir,” said a man holding a lantern, “I am.”

“Is there any other entrance to these grounds?”

“No, sir,” said the man sharply, and Linnell’s heart beat with joy. “Leastwise, sir, only the garden gate.”

“Garden gate?”

“Yes, sir; at the bottom of the broad walk.”

“Here – which way?”

“Right up through the grounds, sir; or along outside here, till you come to the lane that goes round by the back. But it’s always kept locked.”

“Stop here, Mellersh, while I go round and see,” whispered Linnell. “If I shout, come to me.”

“Yes; go on. It is not likely.”

They went outside together, past the wondering group of servants, and then separating, Linnell was starting off when Mellersh ran to him.

“No blows, Dick,” he whispered, “Be content with separating them.”

Linnell nodded, and was starting again when a man ran up out of the darkness, and caught Mellersh hastily by the arm.

“Seen a post-chaise about here, sir?”

“Post-chaise, my man?”

“Yes, sir – four horses – was to have been waiting hereabouts. Lower down. Haven’t heard one pass?”

“No,” said Linnell quickly; “but what post-chaise? Whose? Speak man!”

“Who are you?” said the man roughly.

“Never mind who I am,” cried Linnell. “Tell me who was that post-chaise waiting for?”

The man shook him off with an oath, and was starting again on his search, when about fifty yards away there was the tramp of horses, the rattle and bump of wheels; and then, as by one consent, the three men ran towards the spot, they caught a faint glimpse of a yellow chaise turning into the main road; then there was the cracking of the postboys’ whips, and away it went over the hard road at a canter.

“Too late!” groaned the man, as he ran on, closely followed by Linnell and Mellersh.

“Too late!” groaned Linnell; but he ran on, passing the man, who raced after him, though, and for about a quarter of a mile they kept almost together, till, panting with breathlessness and despair, and feeling the utter hopelessness of overtaking the chaise on foot, Linnell turned fiercely on the runner and grasped him by the throat.

“You scoundrel!” he panted. “You knew of this. Who’s in that chaise?”

“Curse you! don’t stop me. Can’t you see I’m too late?” cried the man savagely.

“Linnell! Are you mad?” cried Mellersh, coming up.

“Linnell! – are you Linnell? – Richard Linnell?” panted the man, ceasing his struggles.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Don’t waste time, man,” groaned the other. “We must stop them at any cost. Did you see them go? Who is it Major Rockley has got there?”

“A lady we know,” said Mellersh quickly. “Who are you?”

“The drunken fool and idiot who wanted to stop it,” groaned Bell. “Here, Linnell,” he said, “what are you going to do?”

“The man’s drunk, and fooling us, Mellersh,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Quick! Into the town and let’s get a post-chaise. They are certain to take the London Road.”

“No,” cried Bell excitedly; “he would make for Weymouth. Tell me this, though, gentlemen,” he cried, clinging to Linnell’s arm. “I am drunk, but I know what I am saying. For God’s sake, speak: is it Claire Denville?”

“Who are you?” cried Mellersh sharply. “Stand off, or I’ll knock you down. It is the Major’s man, Dick, and he’s keeping us back to gain time. I didn’t know him at first.”

“No: I swear I’m not,” cried the dragoon, in a voice so full of anguish, that they felt his words were true. “Tell me, is it Miss Denville?”

“Yes.”

“Curse him! I’ll have his life,” cried the man savagely. “This way, quick!”

“What are you going to do?” cried Linnell, as Bell set off at a sharp run towards the main street of the town.

“Come with me and see.”

“No: I shall get a post-chaise and four.”

“And give them an hour’s start,” cried the dragoon. “Horses, man, horses.”

“Where can we get them quickly?”

“In Major Rockley’s stable, curse him!” was the reply.

In five minutes they were at the stable, and the dragoon threw open the door.

“Can you saddle a horse?” he panted, as they entered the place, dimly lit by a tallow candle in a swinging horn lantern.

“Yes – yes,” was the reply.

“Quick then. Everything’s ready.”

Each ran to a horse, the head-stalls were cast loose, and the order of the well-appointed stable stood them in such good stead that, everything being at hand, in five minutes the three horses were saddled and bridled, and being led out, champing their bits.

“We’ve no spurs. Where are the whips?”

“They want no whips,” cried the dragoon excitedly; “a shake of the rein and a touch of the heel. They’re chargers, gentlemen. Can you ride, Mr Linnell?”

“Yes,” was the answer; and as it was given Linnell’s foot was painfully raised to the stirrup.

He stopped though, and laid his hand upon the dragoon’s shoulder.

“The London Road?” he said, looking him full in the eyes.

“The Weymouth Road, I tell you.”

Another half minute and they were mounted and clattering down the lane to turn into the main street, up which the three sleek creatures pressed, hanging close together, and snorting, and rattling their bits as they increased their stride.

“Steady – steady – a carriage,” cried Mellersh; and they opened out to ride on either side of a chariot with flashing lamps, and as they passed they had a glimpse of Lady Drelincourt being escorted home from the party by Sir Matthew Bray.

“Steady!” cried Mellersh again, as they came in sight of the cluster of lamps and carriages by Mrs Pontardent’s gates; and but for his insistance there would have been a collision, for another carriage came out and passed them, the wheel just brushing Linnell’s leg in the road narrowed by a string of carriages drawn up to the path.

“Now we’re clear,” said Mellersh; and they cantered by the wall, past the lane in which the chaise had been waiting, past a few more houses and the ragged outskirts, always mounting, and then bearing off to the left as the way curved, till there it lay, the broad chalk western road, open, hard, and ready to ring to their horses’ beating hoofs.

“Now then, forward!” cried the dragoon hoarsely.

“At a trot!” shouted Mellersh.

“No, no; gallop!” roared the dragoon, and his horse darted ahead.

“Halt!” shouted Mellersh in a ringing voice, for he had not forgotten old field-practice; and the three horses stopped short.

“Listen!” he continued, in a voice of authority; “they’ve half an hour’s start nearly, and we shall not overtake them this stage. We must not blow our horses at the beginning. A steady trot for the first few miles, and then forward at a canter. It will be a long race.”

“Right, sir,” cried the dragoon. “He’s right, Mr Linnell. Take the lead, sir; my head’s on fire.”

“Forward!” cried the Colonel; and away they went through the dark night, but with the chalky road making their way clear.