The Master of the Ceremonies

“Gentleman, eh? You behave like a lady, don’t you? Nice position we hold in society through you and the old man, don’t we? I’ll be off abroad, that’s what I’ll do, and take May away from the old connection.”

“Yes, do!” cried Claire excitedly. “Do, Frank, at once. No, no; you must not do that. – Heaven help me! What am I saying?” she sighed to herself.

“Best thing to do,” said Burnett. “Shouldn’t have you always coming in then.”

“Frank dear,” said Claire deprecatingly, “I have not been to see May since – ”

“You disgraced yourself on the night of the party,” he said brutally.

“Frank!”

“Oh, come: it’s of no use to ride the high horse with me, my lady. I’m not a fool. I repeat it: you haven’t been since the night you disgraced us by inviting that little blackguard, Harry Payne, to see you; and it would have been better if you had not come now.”

Claire winced as if she were being lashed, but she uttered no word of complaint. It was her fate, she told herself, to suffer for others, and she was ready to play the social martyr’s part, and save May and Burnett if she could.

As she debated in her mind whether Burnett had not proposed the solution of the difficulty in taking her sister away, the thought was crushed by the recollection that May was Gravani’s wife, and that she would be saved and made happier could she leave with him.

Then the feeling came that all this was madness, and the position hopeless, and she said imploringly:

“Let me see May, Frank.”

“What do you want with her? To beg for more money? You’ve kept her short enough lately.”

“Frank! indeed – ”

“No lies, please,” he cried. “I know you’ve had at least a guinea a week from her for long enough past.”

It was true, but the money was for Gravani’s child; and Claire’s face grew hollow and old-looking as she felt that she dared not defend herself.

“I suppose you have come for more money, haven’t you?” said Burnett spitefully.

“No – indeed no!” cried Claire.

“I do not believe you,” he said brutally; “and – ”

“Ah, Claire, you here!” said May, rustling into the room, all silk, and scent, and flowers.

“Yes, she’s here,” said Burnett; “and the sooner she’s gone the better. I’m going out.”

“Very well, dear,” said May. “But don’t pout and frown like that at his little frightened wife.”

“Get out!” said Burnett, “and don’t be a fool before people.”

He shook her off as he said this, and strutted towards the door, where he turned with a sneering grin upon his face.

“I say,” he cried, “I didn’t give you any money when you asked me this morning.”

“No, dear, you didn’t. Give me some now, before you go. Don’t go out and leave me without.”

“Not a shilling!” he cried, with an unpleasant cackling laugh.

May stood with the pretty smile upon her face, a strange contrast to the pained classic sorrow upon her sister’s better-formed features, amid perfect silence, till the front door closed, and Frank Burnett’s strutting step was heard on the shingle walk leading to the gate, when a change came over the bright, flower-like countenance, which was convulsed with anger in miniature.

“Ugh! Little contemptible wretch!” she exclaimed. “How I do hate you! Claire, I shall end by running away from the little miserable ape, if I don’t make up my mind to kill him. Ah!”

She ended with an ejaculation full of pain, and turned a wondering, childish look of reproach on her sister, for Claire had crossed to her, and suddenly grasped her wrist.

“Silence, May!” she cried.

“Oh, don’t!” said May, wresting herself free, and stamping her foot like a fretful, angry child. “And if you’ve come here to do nothing but scold me and find fault, you’d better go.”

“May – May! Listen to me.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll go up to my own room and cry my eyes out. You don’t know; you can’t imagine what a little wretch he is. I wish you were married to him instead of me.”

“May!”

“I won’t listen,” cried the foolish little woman, stopping her ears. “You bully me for caring for Sir Harry Payne, who is all that is tender and loving; and I’m tied to that hateful little wretch for life, and he makes my very existence a curse.”

“May, will you listen?”

“I can see you are scolding me, but I can’t hear a word you say, and I won’t listen. Oh, I do wish you were married to him instead of me.”

“I wish to heaven I were!” cried Claire solemnly.

“What?” cried May, the stopping of whose ears seemed now to be very ineffective. “You wish you were married to the little mean-spirited, insignificant wretch?”

“Yes,” said Claire excitedly, “for then you would be free.”

“What do you mean by that, Claire?”

“Did you not tell me that Louis Gravani was dead?”

“Yes, of course I did.”

“Why did you tell me that?”

“Because he went to Rome or Florence – I am not sure which – and caught a fever and died.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, dear, he never wrote and told me he was dead, of course,” said May with a little laugh, “but he told me he had caught the fever, and he never wrote to me any more, so, of course, he died.”

“And, without knowing for certain, you married Frank Burnett?”

“Don’t talk in that way, dear. It’s just like the actress at Drury Lane, where Frank took me. You would make a fortune on the stage. What do you mean, looking at me so tragically?”

“May, prepare yourself for terrible news.”

“Oh, Claire! Is poor, dear papa dead?”

“May, Louis Gravani is alive.”

“Alive? Oh, I am so glad!” she cried, clapping her hands. “Poor, dear little Louis! How he did love me! Then he isn’t dead, after all, and I’m his wife, and not Frank’s. Oh, what fun!”

Claire caught at the back of a chair, and stood gazing wildly at her sister, utterly stunned by her childish unthinking manner.

“May – May!” she cried bitterly; “your sin is finding you out.”

“Sin? How absurd you are! Why, what sin have I committed?”

“That clandestine marriage, May.”

“Now what nonsense, dear. It wasn’t my fault, as I told you before. You don’t know what love is. I do, and I loved poor, dear little Louis. I couldn’t help it, and he made me marry him.”

“Oh, May, May!”

“I tell you, I was obliged to marry him. One can’t do as one likes, when one loves. You’ll know that some day. But, I am glad.”

“May!” cried Claire reproachfully.

“So I am. Why, he’ll come and fetch me away from my miserable tyrant, and we can have little pet blossom away from Fisherman Dick’s, and take a cottage somewhere, and then I can sing and play to baby, while dear old Louis reads the Italian poets to me, and goes on with his painting.”

A piteous sigh escaped from Claire Denville’s lips as she fervently breathed in wild appeal:

“My God, help me!” And then – “It is too hard – too hard. What shall I do?”

A change came over the scene. The picture May Burnett had painted dissolved in the thin air, and she turned quickly upon her sister.

“How do you know this, Claire? Has Louis written to you?”

“No. He is here.”

“Here! In Saltinville?”

“Yes, here in Saltinville. He would have been at this house, only I prevailed upon him to stay till I had seen you – to prepare you.”

“Oh, Claire! Does he know I am married?”

“No; he believes you have been as faithful to him as he to you.”

“Oh!”

It was a wild cry; and a look of frightened horror came over the pretty baby face, as its owner caught Claire round the waist, and clung to her.

“Claire, Claire!” she cried. “Save me! What shall I do? Louis is an Italian, and he is all love and passion and jealousy. I dare not see him. He would kill me, if he knew. What shall I do? What can I do? Oh, this is terrible, Claire!” she cried. “Claire!” and she shook her sister passionately. “Why don’t you speak? What shall I do?”

Claire remained silent.

“Why don’t you speak, I say?” cried May with childish petulance.

“I am praying for help and guidance, sister, for I do not know.”

May let herself sink down upon the carpet with her hands clasped, as she gazed straight at her sister, looking to her for advice and help, while Claire remained with her eyes fixed, deeply pondering upon their terrible position.

“I can only think of one thing,” she said at last. “I must see Louis Gravani, and tell him all.”

“No, no; I tell you he will kill me.”

“He loves you, May; and I must appeal to him to act like a gentleman in this terrible strait.”

“Don’t I tell you that he is a passionate Italian, and that he would kill me. He always used to say that he felt as if he could stab anybody who came between us. Oh, Claire, what shall I do? My poor life’s full of miserable troubles. I wish I were dead.”

“Hush, May, and try and help me, instead of acting in this childish way.”

“There, now you turn against me.”

“No, no, my poor sister. I want to help you, and give you strength.”

“Then you will help me, Claire?”

“Help you!” said Claire reproachfully. “Did I spare my poor reputation for your sake?”

“Oh, don’t talk of that now, only tell me, what shall I do?”

“You must come with me.”

“With you, dear? Where?”

“Home, to your father’s roof; and we must tell him all. He will protect you.”

“Come – home – tell poor papa? No – no – no, I cannot – I dare not.”

“You must, May. It were a shame and disgrace to stay here, now that you know your husband is alive.”

“My first husband, Claire dear,” said May pitifully.

“Oh, hush, May; you’ll drive me mad. There, go and dress yourself, and come home.”

“I will not – I daren’t,” cried May; “and, besides, this is my home.”

“And Louis? Am I to tell him where you are?”

“No, no. I tell you he would kill me. I must have time to think. Didn’t you tell me he was going to wait, Claire? Look here, I dare not see him. No, everything is over between us. You must see him, dear.”

“See him?” said Claire.

“Yes, dear, yes. Oh, Claire, Claire!” she cried wildly, going upon her knees to her sister, “pray – pray, save me. Tell Louis I am not married to Frank. Tell him he must go away, and not come back till I write to him.”

“May, how can you be so childish?” cried Claire piteously.

“I am not childish. This is not childish. I know – I know – tell him this, and he will go away.”

“Tell him this?”

“Yes, yes; don’t you understand? He is very stupid; tell him I am dead.”

“May!”

“Stop a moment; you said he was going to wait.”

“Till I can give him news of you.”

“Yes; then you must keep him quiet for a day or two, till I have had time to think.”

“There is no time.”

“Give me till to-morrow, Claire. Don’t you see I am all confused, and mad with grief?”

“Till to-morrow?” said Claire, gazing at her, for it was like a respite to her as well, in her horrible doubt and confusion of intellect.

“Yes, till to-morrow. I will shut myself up in my room till then, and try and think out what will be best. There, go now. I can’t talk to you; I can’t think; I can’t do anything till you are gone; and I must have time.”

Claire left her at last unwillingly, but with the understanding that May was to stay in her own room till the next day, and await her return.

“It will all come right at last, Claire,” said May, at parting. “It always does, dear. There, don’t fidget. It’s very tiresome of him to come now; but I don’t know: perhaps it’s all for the best.”

She kissed Claire affectionately at parting; and the latter sighed as she hurried home, struggling with herself as to how she should make all this known to her father.

“He must know,” she said; and she entered the dining-room at once, to find that he was absent, though he had been home while she was away.

“Master said he had some business to transact, ma’am, and would have a chop at the Assembly Rooms. You were not to wait dinner.”

Claire went to her own room to think.

May had, in accordance with her promise, gone to hers; then she had written a brief note, ordered the carriage, and gone for a drive, closely veiled. One of her calls was at Miss Clode’s, where she entrusted her note, not to some volume to be sold, but to Miss Clode’s round-eyed, plump-cheeked niece, who promised to deliver it at once.

End of Volume Two

Volume Three – Chapter One.

Miss Clode is Mysterious

Richard Linnell had left his quiet, patient-looking father busily copying a sheet of music, and joined Colonel Mellersh, who was waiting at the door ready for a stroll.

Cora Dean’s ponies were in the road, and that lady was just about to start for a drive.

Somehow, her door opened, and she came rustling down, closing her ears to a petulant call from her mother, and – perhaps it was an accident – so timed her descent that it would be impossible for the gentlemen to avoid offering to hand her to the carriage.

They both raised their hats as they stood upon the step, and she smiled and looked at Richard Linnell, but he did not stir.

“Come, Dick,” said Mellersh, with a half-sneer; “have you forgotten your manners?”

Linnell started, offered his arm, which was taken, and he led Cora down to the little carriage, the ponies beginning to stamp as the groom held their bits, while the bright, smiling look of their mistress passed away.

“The ponies look rather fresh,” said Richard Linnell, trying to be agreeable. “I should have their bearing reins tightened a little.”

“Why?” said Cora sharply, and with a glance full of resentment: and, at the same moment, she noted that Mellersh was leaning against the door-post, looking on.

“Why?” repeated Linnell, smiling in her face – but it was not the smile she wished to see – “for fear of another accident, of course.”

“What would you care?” she said in a low whisper. “I wish there would be another accident. Why didn’t you let me drown? I wish I were dead.”

She gave her ponies a sharp lash, the groom leaped aside, caught the back of the carriage, and swung himself up into his seat, and away they dashed at a gallop, while Linnell stood gazing after them, till Mellersh laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“Dick, Dick,” he said banteringly, “what a fierce wooer you are! You have been saying something to offend the fair Cora. Come along.”

“Does it give you pleasure to banter me like this?”

“Banter, man? I was in earnest.”

They walked along the parade in silence, and had not gone far before they met the Master of the Ceremonies, who raised his hat stiffly, in response to their salutes, and passed on.

“Oh, man, man, why don’t you take the good the gods provide you, instead of sighing after what you cannot have.”

“Mellersh,” said Richard, as if he had not heard him, “if I make up my mind to leave Saltinville, will you pay a good deal of attention to the old man?”

“Leave – Saltinville?”

“Yes; I am sick of the place. I must go right away.”

“Stop a moment! Hold your tongue! There is that scoundrel, Rockley, with his gang.”

In effect, a group of officers came along in the opposite direction, and, but for the disposition shown them to avoid a quarrel, their offensive monopolisation of the whole of the path would have resulted in an altercation.

“I shall have to cripple that fellow,” said Mellersh, as they walked on, after turning out into the road in passing the group. “I wonder young Denville does not shoot him for his goings on with his sister.”

“Mellersh!”

“I can’t help it, Dick; I must speak out. Rockley is indefatigable there. The fellow is bewitched with her, and is always after her.”

“It’s a lie!” exclaimed Linnell.

“Call me a liar if you like, Dick, my lad. I shan’t send you a challenge. Plenty of people will satisfy you as to the truth of what I say, and I speak thus plainly because I am weary of seeing you so infatuated with Claire Denville.”

Linnell tried to draw his arm away, but the Colonel retained it.

“No, no, my dear boy, we cannot quarrel,” he said. “It is impossible. But about this going away. Right. I would go. It will cure you.”

“Cure me?” said Linnell bitterly.

“Yes, cure you. Dick, my boy, it makes me mad to see you so blind – to see you let a woman who looks guileless lead you – Well, I’ll say no more. I cannot believe in Claire Denville any more than I can in her little innocent-looking jade of a sister.”

Linnell uttered an impatient ejaculation.

“She goes about with a face as round-eyed as a baby’s, and as smooth; while all the time I know – ”

Linnell turned to him a look so full of agony that he ceased on the instant, but began again.

“I cannot help it, Dick,” he said. “It worries me to see you growing so listless over a passion for a woman who does not care a straw for you.”

“If I could believe that,” said Linnell, “I could bear it; but I am tortured by doubts, and every friend I have seems to be bent upon blackening the reputation of a woman who has been cruelly maligned.”

Mellersh began to whistle softly, and then said, sharply:

“What! going in here?”

“Yes; will you come?”

“No,” said Mellersh, giving him a curious look. “Expect a letter? Tut-tut, man, don’t eat me. You would not be the first man who made a post-office of Miss Clode’s circulating library. What is it, then – fiddle-strings?”

Linnell nodded.

“Go in, then; you can join me presently. I shall be on the pier. I say, Dick, the fair directress of this establishment ought to put up on her sign, ‘Dealer in heart-strings and fiddle-strings.’ There, good-bye for the present.”

The Colonel went on, keeping a sharp look-out for Cora Dean’s pony-carriage; but it did not meet his eyes; and Richard Linnell turned into the library, meeting Lady Drelincourt, who smiled and simpered as she passed out, thrusting a book into her reticule.

Miss Clode was just disappearing into the inner room, leaving round-eyed Annie in charge; but as soon as that young lady caught sight of Linnell, she darted back to whisper loudly:

“Auntie, auntie: here’s Mr Richard Linnell.”

The latter saw no reason why little Miss Clode should flush and turn pale, and then look up at him in a wistful manner, almost with reproach in her eyes.

“Why, it’s quite a month since I’ve seen you, Mr Linnell,” she said, “and – and you look quite pale and thin.”

“Do I, Miss Clode?” he said, smiling. “Ah, well, it’s a healthy sign – of robust health, you know. I want some – ”

“But you don’t look well, Mr Linnell,” she said hastily. “Annie, my dear, take this book to Mrs Barclay’s, and make haste back.”

“Yes, auntie,” said the girl, in an ill-used tone.

“And make haste,” cried Miss Clode. “Will you excuse me a minute, Mr Linnell?”

“Oh, of course,” said the young man listlessly. “Give me the case with the violin strings, and I’ll select some.”

Miss Clode did not appear as if she heard him, but went to the back of the shop to hurry her niece away, to that young lady’s great disgust, for she wanted to stare at Richard, whom she greatly admired, and hear what was said. Consequently, he was left turning over the books for a few minutes before Miss Clode returned, and, to his surprise, stood gazing up at him wistfully.

“Well, Miss Clode,” he said with forced gaiety, “suppose somebody were waiting for me to join in a sonata?”

“I – I beg your pardon,” she cried, flushing, and turning her back, she obtained the tin case that held the transparent rings, and placed it before him with a deep sigh.

“Not well, Miss Clode?” said Richard cheerfully.

To his astonishment she caught his hand in hers, and burst into tears.

“No, no, no,” she cried, sobbing violently, “I am ill – heart-sick. Mr Linnell, please, pray come in, I want to speak to you.”

“Why, Miss Clode!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, you are surprised,” she exclaimed, “greatly surprised. You, so young and handsome, an independent gentleman, are astonished that a poor insignificant woman in my humble position should be always anxious about you – should – should – there, I can keep it back no longer,” she cried passionately, as she held with both hands tightly that which he tried to withdraw. “I must speak – I must tell you, or you will wreck and ruin your dear life. Mr Linnell – Richard – I love you. I love you so that I cannot bear to see and hear what I do – you are breaking my heart.”

“Miss Clode!” cried Richard Linnell, amazed, filled with contempt, sorrow, pity, all in one. “Think of what you are saying. Why, what madness is this?”

“The madness of a wretched, unhappy woman, who has known you so long, and whose love for you is a hundred times stronger than you can believe. But hush! Come in here. Some one may call at any moment, and I could not bear for them to see.”

She loosed his hand, made a quick movement towards the little door at the end of the counter, and held it open for him to pass in.

It was a painful position for one so full of chivalrous respect for women, and the young man stood trying to think of what to say to release himself in the best way from a situation that he would have looked upon as ludicrous, only that it was so full of pain.

“You are shrinking from me!” she exclaimed. “Pray, pray, don’t do that, Mr Linnell. Have I not suffered enough? Come in; let me talk to you. Let me try and explain.”

“It is impossible,” he said at last sternly. “Miss Clode, believe me that I will never breathe a syllable about this to a soul, but – ”

“Oh, you foolish, foolish boy!” she exclaimed, bursting into an hysterical fit of laughter. “How could you think such a thing as that? Is there no love a poor, weak, elderly woman like I am, could bear for one she has known from a boy, but such as filled your mind just then? There, there!” she cried, wiping her eyes quickly. “I have spoken wildly to you. Forgive me. I am a poor lonely woman, who fixed her affection upon you, Richard Linnell, farther back than you can imagine. Listen, and let me tell you,” she said in a soft, low voice, as she came round to the front of the counter, and laid her little thin hand upon his arm. “You lost your mother long ago, and have never known what it was to have a mother’s love; but, for years past, your every movement has been watched by me; I have suffered when you have been in pain; I have rejoiced when I knew that you were happy.”

“My dear Miss Clode!” he exclaimed, in a half-wondering, half-pitying tone.

“Yes – yes,” she panted; “speak to me like that. You pay me for much suffering and misery; but don’t – pray don’t despise me for all this.”

“Despise you? No!” he said warmly; “but you do surprise me, Miss Clode. I know you have always spoken very kindly to me.”

“And you have always thought it almost an impertinence,” she said sadly. “It has been. This is impertinent of me, you think, too, but I shall not presume. Mr Linnell, I have something to say to you, and when that is said, I shall keep my distance again, and it will be a secret between us.”

“Why, Miss Clode,” said Richard, trying to smile cheerfully, “you are making up quite a romance out of one of your own books.”

“Yes,” she said, looking wistfully in his eyes, “quite a romance, only it is all true, my dear. Now, will you come in?”

He hesitated for a moment, and then walked right in to the parlour, and she followed him, wiping her red eyes with her handkerchief.

“You will sit down?” she said, drawing forward an elbow-chair.

He took it from her and placed it so that she could sit down, while he took another.

“No,” she said softly, “I will stand. Mr Linnell, please sit down.”

He smiled and looked at her, full of expectancy, while she stood wringing her handkerchief, and puckering up her forehead, her lips parted, and an eager look of pride in her eyes as she gazed at him.

“It is very good of you to come,” she faltered. “I will say what I have to say directly, but I am very weak, my dear – I – I beg your pardon, Mr Linnell. Don’t – don’t think me too familiar. You are not angry with me for loving you?”

“How can I be angry?” he said quickly. “I am surprised.”

“You need not be,” she said. “You would not be, if you knew more of human nature than you do. Mr Richard Linnell, it is in a woman’s nature to desire to cling to and love something. Why should you be surprised that a poor lonely woman like me should love – as a son – the handsomest and truest gentleman we have in Saltinville?”

“It is fortunate for me that we meet but seldom, Miss Clode,” said Richard, smiling, “if you hold me in such estimation as this.”