The Master of the Ceremonies

On reaching the inn, Rockley was placed in the landlord’s care, with instructions to fetch a medical man, and the three afterwards had a perfectly silent ride back to Saltinville, where Mrs Dean was found sitting up in a high state of excitement, and ready to greet her daughter:

“Lor! Bet – Cora – you have give me a turn. I thought it was a real elopement, and now you’ve come back.”

“Well, Dick,” said Mellersh grimly, as they stood together in the latter’s room. “What do you think of it now?”

“I think I’ve been a fool,” said Linnell shortly; “but I can’t quite make it out.”

“Neither can I,” responded Mellersh, after a pause.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Eight.

Under a Thick Cloak

“You’ll be so glad to hear, my dear,” prattled on Mrs Barclay, who was exceedingly warm and happy. “There’s quite a reconciliation, my dear.”

“Reconciliation?”

“Yes, dear. Young Cornet Denville has just fetched her to take her round the grounds, which is just as it should be, you know. I’d have gone with them, but I’m afraid of the night air, and catching a bad cold, you see, and so I think it’s better not to risk taking a chill, and – ”

“Who fetched her – Cornet Denville?”

“Yes, my dear, her brother; and I’ve been thinking – ”

“Don’t talk, Mrs Barclay,” cried Cora quickly – “don’t talk, pray, only tell me which way she went.”

“Through that door, my dear, and on to the lawn. You’ll catch ’em if you make haste. Bless us and save us, what is the matter with her? Any one would think poor Claire had run off with her young man. Dear, dear! what a blessing to be sure,” sighed Mrs Barclay complacently, as she fanned herself, “to have one’s own Jo-si-ah, and no troubles of that kind now.”

Cora was gone – out through the window and on to the grass. There were couples here and there in the dim light, but not those she wished to see, as she stood passing her large lace scarf over her head.

“What shall I do?” she moaned; and in frantic haste she ran down the first path she came to, feeling more and more sure that she was wrong; but directly after she found that this crossed a broad grass path at right angles; and as she reached it she uttered a gasp, for there was a couple coming down towards her, and she felt rather than saw that it was those she sought.

They were close upon her, coming between the bushes, and Morton was talking loudly, with the thick utterance of one nearly inebriated, while Claire was answering in a troubled way.

“Very sorry,” he said slowly, “sorry, little sis. Love you too much not to ’pologise, but – man’s position – as officer and a gentleman – ”

“Yes, yes, dear, you’ve said so before.”

“And I must say you – Hallo! Who’s thish?”

“Claire!” cried Cora, in a low whisper. “Back to the house – quick!”

“Miss Dean!”

“Yes. Quick! For heaven’s sake. Go. Your father.”

Cora did not know it, but she had touched the right chord.

Claire had seemed startled at first, and had hesitated as they stood together in the darkness with Morton holding the new-comer’s arm; but as Cora exclaimed, as the place of safety Claire was to seek, “your father!” the thought flashed through Claire’s brain that he had had some terrible seizure – or, worse, that horror of which he was in dread had come upon him, and in an instant, she had turned and run back towards the house.

“Why, what the dickensh – I say, what’s matter?” stammered Morton. “Here, Miss Dean, I know you – you know – bu’ful Miss Dean. Proud of your company. Officer and a gentleman – and take my – ”

It was so cleverly done that Cora was taken by surprise. She was about, as the simplest way out of the difficulty, to take the lad’s arm, and walk back with him to the house, when there was a slight rustle behind her, the sound of a blow or fall, and the latter muffled and strange, for a great cavalry cloak was thrown over her head, twisted tightly round her, binding her arms to her side, and stifling the cry she uttered; and as she struggled fiercely for her liberty she was lifted from her feet and borne away.

It was all done so quickly that she was staggered, and she had not recovered from her confusion when she felt herself forced into a carriage – the chaise, evidently, of which she had heard. Then came the banging of a door as she was held back by two strong arms, the swaying and jerking of the chaise as it went over rough ground and ruts. Then she realised that it swayed more than ever as they turned on to a hard road, and she could hear the dull, smothered rattle of the wheels and the tramp of horses’ feet.

She was a woman of plenty of strength of mind; but, for the time being, the fact of having fallen into this trap laid for Claire stunned her, and she felt a depressing dread. But by degrees this gave place to her returning courage, and she struggled furiously, but found that she was tightly held, and a deep voice she knew kept on bidding her to be patient – not to be alarmed – and the like.

In the midst of her excitement she ceased struggling and lay back in the corner of the chaise thinking, for the adventure had now assumed a ludicrous aspect. It was dramatic – a scene that might have happened in a play, and she laughed as she thought of Major Rockley’s rage and disappointment when he realised his mistake.

“I’m not afraid of him,” she thought, “and I hate him with all my heart. It is only waiting till we stop, and then the tables will be turned.”

“Ah, that’s more sensible,” came through the thick cloak. “Promise to be patient and not call out, and I will take off the cloak.”

It was very hot. She could hardly breathe, but she dreaded having it removed till she recalled how dark it was; that it must be even darker, shut up in the chaise, and that she had on her large lace mantilla, with which she could well cover her face.

“Shall I take off the cloak?” was said, after they had stopped and changed horses; and, feeling that she must have air, she made a gesture with her hands, passing them up towards her face as she felt the great cloth-covering partly removed, and, as it was drawn away, carefully covering her face and neck with the scarf.

“At last!” exclaimed her companion, trying to pass his arm round her, but she struck at him so fiercely that he desisted, and just then the chaise slackened speed.

“What is it?” he cried, gripping his prisoner’s arm with one hand, as he leaned forward and let down a front window.

“Like us to go on as fast as this, Captain? Road’s getting a bit hilly.”

“Yes, and faster, you fools. On, quick! What’s that?”

“Sounds like horses, sir, coming on behind.”

“Oh, not after us, but go on as fast as you can.”

The chaise rumbled on as the window was drawn up, and the sound of the horses deadened; but Rockley let down the window on his side of the vehicle and thrust out his head.

As he did so Cora listened intently, and made out the beating of horses’ hoofs behind, now dying out, now louder, now dying out again, but always heard; and her heart gave a joyful bound as the thought came that an alarm might have been given by Morton Denville, and these be friends in pursuit – Richard Linnell perhaps.

Her heart sank like lead. No; she was not afraid of Major Rockley, and she did not care a fig for the opinion of Saltinville society. She had been carried off against her will, and the sneers would be those against Rockley, not against her.

The chaise might go on for hours – all night, if the Major liked. The longer it was before he discovered his mistake the greater his rage would be. What was there to fear? If she shrieked the postboys must come to her help, or she could command help at the next stopping-place.

And the horsemen coming on?

Yes, they were evidently gaining ground, but it was not to overtake her. He was trying to save the woman he loved – he, Richard Linnell – and her heart sank lower and lower still.

Then it gave a bound, for there was the click-click of a pistol, just as before now she had heard it on the stage, and Rockley said:

“That’s right. I’m glad you are quiet. I’ve got you, and, by Jove, I’ll shoot the man who tries to get you away as I would a dog.”

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Nine.

A Little Gossip

That hat which the Master of the Ceremonies raised so frequently to the various visitors looked in its solidity as if it might very well become an heirloom, and descend to his son, should he in more mature life take to his father’s duties.

Stuart Denville had just replaced it for about the twentieth time that morning, when he encountered Lady Drelincourt in her chair.

Her ladyship had been very cold since her visit to the Denvilles, but this particular morning she was all smiles and good humour.

“Now, here you are, Denville, and you’ll tell me all about it. You were there?”

“Yes, dear Lady Drelincourt,” said Denville, with his best smile, as he thought of Morton and his possible future. “I was there. At – er – ”

“Pontardent’s, yes. Now, tell me, there’s a good man, all about it. Is the Major much hurt? Now, how tiresome! What do you want, Bray? You are always hunting me about with that wicked boy.”

“No, no,” said Sir Matthew, in his ponderous fashion. “Drawn, Lady Drelincourt, drawn. Attracted, eh, Payne?”

Sir Harry Payne – “that wicked boy,” as he was termed by her ladyship – declared upon his reputation that Sir Matthew Bray was quite right. It was attraction.

“I felt it myself, demme, that I did, horribly, madam; but I said I would be true to my friend Bray, here, and I fled from temptation like a man.”

“I’m afraid I can’t believe you – either of you,” said her ladyship, simpering. “But, now, do tell me – no, no, don’t go, Denville; I want to talk to you. Sir Harry, now was Major Rockley, that dreadful Mephistopheles, half killed?”

Sir Harry Payne screwed up his face, shook his head, took snuff loudly, and, raising his hat, walked away.

“How tantalising!” cried Lady Drelincourt. “Now, Bray, do tell me. Is it true that he was carrying off that Miss Dean, and her mother sent Colonel Mellersh and Mr Linnell to fetch them back?”

“Mustn’t tell. Can’t say a word, dear Lady Drelincourt. Brother-officer, you see. But – ”

Sir Matthew Bray blew out his cheeks, frowned, rolled his eyes, pursed up his lips, and looked as if he were fully charged with important information which honour forbade him to part with, ending by shaking his head at her ladyship, and then giving it a solemn nod.

“I knew I was right,” said her ladyship triumphantly. “Now, didn’t you hear the same version, Denville?”

“Well, I – must confess, your ladyship – that I – er – did.”

“Of course. That’s it. Well, Rockley’s a very, very wicked man, and I don’t think I shall ever speak to him again. I’ve quite done with him. Yes, you may stay a little while, Bray, but not long. People are so scandalous. Good-bye, Denville. Is your little girl quite well?”

Denville declared that she was in the best of health; and, as Lady Drelincourt was wheeled away in one direction, so much fashionable lumber, the Master of the Ceremonies went mincing in the other.

Saltinville boasted of about a dozen versions of the scandal, one of the most popular being that which was picked up at Miss Clode’s. In this version Cora Dean had no part, but Claire Denville had.

For a whole week these various accounts were bandied about and garbled and told, till the result of the mixture was very singular, and it would have puzzled an expert to work out the simple truth. Then something fresh sprang up, and the elopement or abduction – nobody at last knew which, or who were the principals – was forgotten, especially as Rockley was seen about as usual, and the proprietor of the chaise and the killed horse was fully recompensed by the Major. How he obtained the money, he and Josiah Barclay best knew.

But Stuart Denville was disappointed with respect to his daughter’s prospects. It was sheer pleasure to her to be able to stay quietly at home; but her father bitterly regretted the absence of invitation cards, while he, for one, remained strangely in ignorance that it was his own child who was nearly carried off that night.

Volume Two – Chapter Thirty.

A Terrible Resurrection

“A gentleman to see you, ma’am.”

“To see me, Isaac?” said Claire, starting in terror, and with a strange foreboding of ill. “Who is it? Did he give his name?”

“No, miss; he would not give any name. Said it was on important business. He asked for Miss May first.”

“For Miss May?”

“Yes, ma’am; and I told him she was married, and did not live here now; and he smiled, and said ‘Of course.’ Then he said he would see you.”

Claire had risen, and she stood listening to the man, clutching the chair tightly, and striving hard to seem composed.

“Where is he, Isaac?” she asked, hardly knowing what fell from her lips.

“In the dining-room, ma’am.”

“I will come down.”

Isaac left the room, and Claire drew a long breath.

Who could it be? Some one who had forgotten that May was married, and then recalled it! What did it mean?

She stood with her hands tightly clasped, gazing straight before her, and then walked quickly to the door, and down into the dining-room, so quietly that the short, slight man gazing out of the window did not hear her entrance.

Claire was puzzled while for the moment she gazed at the attitude of her visitor, whose long black hair fell over the collar of his tightly-buttoned surtout, as he stood with one hand resting upon his hip, the other holding his hat and tasselled cane.

She drew a breath of relief. It was no one she knew, of that she felt sure. Perhaps it was no fresh trouble after all.

As if divining the presence of some one in the room, the visitor just then turned quickly, displaying handsome aquiline features, with the olive skin and dark eyes of a young man of about thirty, who threw down his hat and cane and advanced smiling.

“My dear Miss Denville – my dear Claire!” he exclaimed, speaking with a foreign accent.

Claire stood as if frozen, gazing at him in horror.

“M. Gravani!” she cried at last in a hoarse whisper.

“Say Louis,” he said eagerly, taking her hands and kissing them. “Why not? Surely my dear May told you – that she is my wife. No, no, do not be angry with me. It was wrong, I know. But you – you were always so sweet and good and kind, dear Claire!”

He kissed her hands again, and she stood as if in a dream while he went on – speaking fervidly.

“You, so tender, and who loved dear May so much. You will forgive me. We were so young – I was so poor – I dared not speak. What would the Signore Denville have said? That I was mad. May must have told you – she did tell you we were married?”

“Yes – yes,” said Claire slowly, “she told me.”

“That is well. And the old man – the good father, she told him, too!”

“No,” said Claire, still in the same slow, dreamy way, as she strove to listen to her visitor, and at the same time work out in her own mind the meaning of the horrible situation in which her sister was placed.

“She did not tell him? She promised me she would. But the servant told me he knew that May was married.”

“Yes,” stammered Claire; “he knew.”

“I ought to have spoken, but I dared not. I was younger then and so poor. I was obliged to go back to my Italia to try if I could not win fame there and fortune for my little flower of beauty – my May-bud. Claire – dear sister – no, no, you frown – you must forgive us, for we were so young, and we loved so much. Ah, you are not well. I frighten you. I came here so sudden. But my news is so good. I have succeeded so in my art, and I have possessions too. My poor father is dead. I am not a rich man – what you English call rich; but I have enough, and you will forgive me. But, May? She is not here?”

“No, no,” said Claire, with her lips turning ashy pale.

“She is not far away?”

“Not far away,” said Claire, “but Louis, Monsieur Gravani – ”

“No, no, not Monsieur – not Signore. I am Louis, your fratello, your brother. Now tell me. My heart beats to be with her once again. She is not changed, I know. The same little angel face that Raffaello painted, and that I have had ever in my heart.”

“No, she is not changed,” sighed Claire.

“No, she could not change. La mia fiorella!”

“But Louis – ”

“Yes? What? Why do you look at me so? She is ill!”

He raised his voice to a wild cry, and his handsome face grew convulsed as he seized Claire’s hands.

“No, no,” she cried. “No, no; she is quite well.”

“Then take me to her now. I can wait no longer. I must see her now.”

“No, no, you cannot. It is impossible,” cried Claire.

“Then there is something that you do not tell me. Speak; you are killing me.”

“She – she – my poor sister – she thought – she heard – she had news, Louis – that you were dead.”

“Dead? – I? – dead? Oh, my poor little flower!” he cried, with a ring of tender pity in his voice, but changing to a fierce burst of anger on the instant. “But who told her? Who sent her those lies?”

“I don’t know – I never knew. But she grieved for you, Louis – because you were dead.”

“My little tender flower! Oh! oh! it is too cruel. But I am here – here, waiting to press her to my heart once more. You shall take me to her now.”

“It would be impossible. I could not. It would kill her. No, you must wait till to-morrow.”

“No, no; I could not wait,” he cried excitedly. “I love her. I am here. I must see her now.”

Claire felt beside herself, and her hands dropped helplessly to her side, as if she despaired of averting the catastrophe that was to come. What was she to do? – say something to deceive this man and keep him waiting until she had seen and prepared her sister?

The task was hateful to her in the extreme; and it seemed as if her life was to be made up of subterfuges and concealments, all of which caused reflections upon her.

“You love May still?” she said at last.

“Love her still!” he cried, with all the impassioned manner of a young Italian. “I tell you it has been desolation to be separated from her all this time; but it was our hard fate, and I have suffered, as she has, poor child. But the thought of seeing her again has comforted me, and I have waited, oh, so patiently, till I could come to her again. Now, tell me, good sister, I must see her – quick – at once.”

“No,” cried Claire, “it is impossible. You must wait.”

“Wait? – I? – wait?”

“Yes,” said Claire desperately; and there was so much firmness and decision in her tone that the weak, impassioned young Italian was mastered, and yielded to her will.

“Not long, sweet sister, not for long?”

“No, not for long,” said Claire excitedly. “It is for May’s sake. You would not wish to harm her?”

“I? Harm her? Heaven! no. I would die for her,” cried the young man enthusiastically. “You little think how we love.”

“Then wait till I have seen, and broken the news to her.”

“Broken the news, when my arms are throbbing to embrace her once more?”

“Go to where you are staying, and wait patiently till you hear from me or from May, arranging for an interview.”

“Go? – and wait?”

“Yes,” cried Claire; “for May’s sake.”

“I? Go and wait!” sighed the young man. “Well, it is for her. But the old father? Let me stay and embrace him, and tell him how rich I am, and of my joy. He was always kind to me, even when I was so poor.”

“Impossible!” cried Claire, trembling for fear that her father should return.

“Impossible? Well, I will go. Addio – addio. I shall be at the hotel. You will hasten to her, sweet sister, and tell her my heart has been always filled with her sweet image; that her dear face is in a dozen pictures that I have painted in Rome. You will tell her this?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Claire desperately. “I will go and tell her you are here.”

“Addio, cara mia!” he said, as he bent over and tenderly kissed her hands, and then her cheek. “Addio, sweet sister, I am dying till I once more hold her in these arms.”

Claire led him to the door, as if she were in a dream; and, as she listened to his departing steps, her hands involuntarily clasped her throbbing head, and Isaac confided to his fellow-servants the information that there were strange goings-on in that house, and that when he liked to speak – well, they would see.

“What shall I do?”

Volume Two – Chapter Thirty One.

Claire Takes Steps: so does May

“What shall I do?”

The low wild cry of agony that escaped from Claire Denville’s breast was heard by none, as she stood motionless, listening to Louis Gravani’s steps till they died away.

Then, trembling violently in an agony of terror and despair, she rushed up to her bedroom, and threw herself upon her knees, with her hands still clasping her temples.

What should she do? To whom could she go for help and counsel? Mrs Barclay? Impossible! Cora Dean! No, no: she could not tell her! Her father? She shivered at the thought. It would nearly kill him. He believed so in poor, weak, childish May. She could not – she dared not tell him.

If she had only gone to him at once and shared her secret with him when May had confessed her marriage, and told her about the little child, how easy all this would have been now!

No! Would it? The complication was too dreadful.

Claire knelt there with her brain swimming, and the confusion in her mind growing moment by moment worse.

She wanted to think clearly – to plan out some way of averting a horrible exposure from their family; and, as she strove, the thought came upon her with crushing force that she was sinking into a miserable schemer – one who was growing lower in the sight of all she knew.

She pressed her hands over her eyes, but she could not shut out Richard Linnell’s face, and his stern, grave looks, that seemed to read her through and through, keeping her back from acting some fresh deceit, when something was spurring her on to try and save poor weak May.

The horror of Lady Teigne’s death: the suspicion of her having made an assignation with Sir Harry Payne; the supposed elopement with Major Rockley – all these clinging to her and lowering her in the sight of the world. There were those, too, who had noted her visits to the fisherman’s cottage.

It was terrible – one hideous confusion, to which this fresh trouble had come; and she asked herself, in the agony of her spirit, whether it would not be better to wait till the dark, soft night had fallen, and the tide was flowing, lapping, and whispering amongst the piles at the end of the pier. She had but to walk quietly down unseen – to descend those steps, and let the cool, soft wave take her to its breast and bear her away, lulling her to the easy, sweet rest of oblivion.

And May?

She started to her feet at the thought.

And Richard Linnell?

He would go on believing ill of her, and she would never stand up before him, listening as he asked her forgiveness for every doubt, never to be her husband, but ready then to look up to her as all that was pure and true.

May! She must save May. How, she knew not, but she must go to her. Something must be done.

Hurriedly dressing, she went out, and walked swiftly to her brother-in-law’s house, where the servant admitted her with no great show of respect, and she was shown into the drawing-room.

“I’ll tell my mistress you are here,” said the footman; and he went out, closing the door behind him rather loudly.

The effect was to make a little man jump up from the couch where he had been sleeping, with a loud exclamation.

“What is it? Who the – . Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, what do you want?”

“I came – I called to see May, Frank dear,” said Claire, trembling.

“Well, then, I just wish you wouldn’t,” he said testily. “It’s bad enough to have to bear the relationship, without having you come here.”

“Frank! – dear Frank!”

“There, don’t ‘dear Frank’ me. I should have thought, after what had occurred, you would have been ashamed to show your face here again.”

“Frank dear, we are brother and sister; for pity’s sake, spare me. Is it the duty of a gentleman to speak to me like this?”

She looked at him with a pitying dread in her eyes, as she thought of the horror hanging over his house. His allusions were keen enough, but they were blunt arrows compared to the bolts that threatened to fall upon his home; and, in her desire to shield him and his wife, if possible, from some of the suffering that must come, she scarcely felt their points.