The Master of the Ceremonies

“Oh, Denville, Denville,” said Barclay softly, as he laid his hand upon the old man’s shoulder.

“Ah!” he cried, “even you pity me for this. Dear Mrs Barclay, I ought to be angry with you: but no, I will not. You mean so well. But it is all I have – in a life so full of pain and suffering that I wonder how I live – the love of my daughters – them to defend against the world. Madam, you are mistaken. My daughter – an English lady – as pure as heaven. But I thank you – I am not angry – you mean well. Always kind and helpful to my dear child, Claire. Ha, ha, ha!”

It was a curious laugh, full of affectation; and he took snuff again with all the old ceremony; but he did not close the box with a loud snap, and as his hand fell to his side, the brown powder dropped in patches and flakes here and there upon the carpet.

“Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed again. “Calumnies, madam – I say it as I take my leave – the calumnies of false fribbles and envious women. Busy again with my dear children’s names. But we must live it down. Elopement! Pshaw! The coxcombs! The Jezebels! My child! Oh, I cannot mention her sweet, spring-flower name in connection with such a horror. It is atrocious.”

“Denville,” said Barclay, in answer to an appealing look from his wife.

“No, no! Not a word, sir, not a word,” cried Denville, raising his hand. “It is too absurd – too villainous. Madam, it is from your good heart that this warning comes. I thank you, ma’am, you meant to put me on my guard. Barclay, adieu, my good friend. You’ll shake hands. You’ll take no notice of this slight emotion – this display of a father’s indignation on hearing such a charge. Mrs Barclay, if I have spoken harshly, you’ll forgive me. I don’t blame you, dear madam. Au revoir! No, no; don’t ring, I beg. I pray you will not come down. You’ll banish all this – from your thoughts – ”

He stopped short and reeled again, dropping snuff-box, hat, and cane as he clasped his hands to his head, staring wildly before him. The feeble affected babble ceased suddenly, and it was another voice that seemed to come from his lips as he exclaimed loudly in hot anger:

“It is a lie! You – May! The girl I’ve loved so well – you! When my cup of suffering is brimming over. A lie – a lie, I say. Ah!”

His manner changed again; and now it was soft and full of wild appeal, as he cried:

“May – May! My darling! God help me, poor broken dotard that I am! Shall I be in time?”

He made a dash for the door, but staggered, and would have fallen had not Barclay caught him and helped him to a chair, where he sat gazing before him as if at some scene passing before his eyes.

“Blood,” he whispered at last, “to the head. Help me, Barclay, or I shall be too late.”

“No, stay here. I’ll go and do all I can.”

“No!” cried Denville fiercely. “I am her father, Barclay; we may save her – if I go too.”

He rose with nervous energy now, and gripping the money-lender’s arm they went together out into the dark street, where, indignantly refusing further help, the old man strode off, leaving Barclay watching him.

“I don’t hardly know what to do,” he said musingly. “Ah! who are you?”

“His lordship’s man, sir,” said a livery servant. “Lord Carboro’ says could you make it convenient to come to him directly?”

“No, I’m busy. Well, yes, I will. Is he at home?”

“No, sir; at the reading-room.”

“Go on, then,” said Barclay. “Tell his lordship I’ll be there directly.”

The man went off, and Barclay hurried indoors to speak with his wife, and came out five minutes later to join the old nobleman at the reading-room that answered the purpose of a club.

Volume Three – Chapter Six.

On the Downs

High up on the Downs behind the town lay a patch of wood, dwarfed and stunted in its growth by the sharp breezes that came off the sea. The soil in which they grew, too, was exceedingly shallow; and, as the chalk beneath was not very generous in its supply of nutriment, the trees sent their roots along the surface, and their low-spreading branches inland, with a few shabby twigs seaward to meet the cutting blasts.

Right through this patch of thick low wood ran the London Road, and across it the coast road, going west, while a tall finger-post that had once been painted stood with outstretched arms, bending over a little old grey milestone, as if it were blessing it for being so humble and so small.

It was along this road that Richard Linnell, Mellersh, and James Bell had cantered, and then turned off at the cross, on the night of their pursuit, and the chalky way looked much the same beneath twinkling stars on the night succeeding the day when Louis Gravani had had his interview with Claire, as on that of Mrs Pontardent’s party.

The similarity was increased by the presence of a yellow post-chaise; but it was not drawn up at the back of Mrs Pontardent’s garden, but here on the short turf close up to the trees and opposite the finger-post.

The chaise, an old yellow weather-beaten affair, seemed to be misty, and the horses indistinct in the darkness, looking quite the ghost of a vehicle that might be expected to fade away like a trick of the imagination, everything was so still. The very horses were asleep, standing bent of knee and with pendent heads. One of the wheelers, however, uttered a sigh now and then as if unhappy in its dreams, for it was suffering not from nightmare, a trouble that might have befallen any horse, but from the weight of the sleeping postboy on its back. The man evidently believed in his steed as an old friend, and had lain forward over the pommel of his saddle, half clasping the horse’s neck, and was sleeping heavily, while his companion, who rode one of the leaders, had dismounted and seated himself upon the turf where the road was cut down through the chalk, so that his legs were in the channel and his back against a steep bank.

They had been asleep quite an hour, when a quick step was heard, a misty-looking figure in a long grey wrapper, and closely-veiled, came along the road, stopped short by the postboys, retreated and whispered softly as the turf opposite was reached:

“Hist! Are you there? Oh, gracious! What a wicked girl I am! He has not come.”

The figure seemed to take courage and approached the chaise again.

“He may be inside,” she said softly, and going on tip-toe to the door her hand was raised to the fastening, when one of the wheelers snorted and half roused the mounted postboy.

“Hullo, then, old gal,” he muttered loudly. “Yo – yo – yo – yo – yo! Gate – gate.”

“What shall I do?” exclaimed the veiled figure, and she seized one of the spokes of the wheel and clung to it as the other postboy, slightly roused by his companion, took up his cry and shouted drowsily:

“Yo – yo – yo – yo – yo! Gate – gate!”

The horses sighed, and the men subsided into their nap, a long ride on the previous evening having made them particularly drowsy.

“Talking in their sleep,” said the veiled figure, raising herself and trying the handle of the chaise door, opening it, and reaching in to make sure whether it was tenanted or no.

“Not come,” she sighed. “He must be late, or else I’ve missed him. He is looking for me. Oh, what a wicked girl I am! What’s that?”

She turned sharply round, darting behind the chaise and among the trees as a faint sound was heard; and this directly after took the form of footsteps, a short slight man approaching on the other side of the road, stopping to gaze at the chaise and then backing slowly into the low bush-like trees, which effectually hid him from sight.

There was utter stillness again for a few moments, when the dull sound of steps was once more heard, and another short slight figure approached armed with a stout cane.

He kept to the grass and walked straight up to the sleeping postboys, examined them, and then stood listening.

“Just in time,” he said to himself. “Drowsy dogs! Ha – ha – ha! I wish Dick Linnell were here. I should like the fool to see her go. Hang it! I’d have given Harry Payne fifty to help him on the road if he had asked me. Get rid of her for good, curse her! I’m sick of the whole lot. Eh! What, the devil – ”

“What are you doing here, Burnett?” said Richard Linnell, crossing the road from the Downs in company with Mellersh.

“What am I doing? Taking the air. Did you think I was going to elope in a post-chaise. Hist! don’t speak aloud or you’ll wake the boys. But, I say – hang it all – have I been humbugged? Was it you then who were going off with Claire, and not Sir Harry Payne?”

“Do you want me to horsewhip you, Burnett?” cried Linnell in a low, passionate voice.

“Not I. There, don’t be cross. I can’t help it, if she is going.”

Linnell turned from him impatiently, but Burnett followed.

“Let her go, man. What’s the good of worrying about her? Better for both of us.”

“Come aside,” said Mellersh softly. “Here they are.”

Linnell seemed disposed to stand fast, but Mellersh took his arm.

“Look here, my dear boy,” he whispered. “You don’t want to interfere. Let her go.”

Linnell turned upon him fiercely, but he yielded to his companion’s touch, and they walked on some twenty yards, followed by Burnett, who was laughing to himself and nibbing his hands.

“Lucky I heard,” he said to himself. “I only want to be satisfied.”

The steps approaching were not those of a lady and gentleman, but of Lord Carboro’ and Barclay, who, in utter ignorance of anyone but the postboys being at hand, stood for a few minutes listening.

“Yes, Barclay,” said the former. “I could not bear for the poor girl to go without making a step to save her. I’m an old fool, I know, but not the first of my kind. I tell you, asking nothing, expecting nothing, I’d give ten thousand pounds to feel that I had not been deceived in her.”

“Pay up then, my lord, for I tell you that you have been deceived. Once more: the lady is May Burnett, her sister.”

“I’m assured that it is Claire Denville, and if it is, Barclay, I’ll save her, damme, I will, if I shoot the man.”

“But, my lord – ”

“Don’t talk to me, sir. I tell you if I saw her going to the church with a fellow like young Linnell I’d give her a handsome present; but I can’t bear for such a girl as that to be going wrong.”

“Unless it was with you, my lord,” said Barclay abruptly.

“You confounded rascal! How dare you!” snarled Lord Carboro’. “Do you think I have no good feeling in me? There, you wouldn’t believe in my disinterestedness, any more than I would in yours. Don’t talk. What shall we do? Pay the postboys and send them off?”

“No, my lord: stand aside, and make sure that we have made no mistake.”

“If you have made no mistake,” said his lordship quickly; and he and his companion had hardly drawn aside into the convenient wood to swell the circle gathering round the intending evaders, when Richard Linnell made a step from his concealment and was arrested by Mellersh, as Burnett whispered:

“What are they here for?”

Just then one of the postboys yawned and stretched himself, making noise sufficient to awaken his fellow, who rose from the bank and flicked his whip.

“How long have we been here?” said the man on the horse.

“Hours, and not a soul come. My ticker’s been asleep as well,” he muttered, after pulling out his watch. “I believe the ’osses have been having a nap too. I say, I’m getting sick of this.”

“Think they’ll come?”

“Hang me if I know. Guv’nor seems to have been about right.”

“Why, what did he say?”

“You was there and heard him.”

“No: I was in the stable.”

“Said two po’chays was ordered, and he’d only horses for one. That it was certain as it was a ’lopement, that both parties wouldn’t come, and perhaps neither of ’em. If they did, Sir Matthy Bray and Sir Harry Payne had better fight it out, and the gals go home. Hist! Is that them?”

The two men listened attentively as steps were heard, and the listeners in the wood were all on the qui vive.

Directly after, Sir Harry Payne came up.

“Seen a lady, my lads?”

“No, sir. Been on the watch ever since we come, and no one’s been near,” said the first postboy.

“Humph! Past time. Horses fresh?”

“Fresh as daisies, Sir Harry. Don’t you be afraid. No one’ll catch us.”

“Are you sure you’ve both been watching? Not been asleep, have you?”

“Sleep a-top of a horse, Sir Harry? Not we.”

“Mount!” cried Sir Harry to the second man. “Here she comes.”

What followed was the business of a few moments. A slight little veiled figure came panting up, and was caught in Sir Harry’s arms.

“At last!” he cried. “This way, little pet-curse the woman! What are you doing here?”

Claire Denville’s cloak dropped from her shoulders as, panting and utterly exhausted with the chase after her sister, she flung her arms about her and held her fast.

“May!” she panted. “Sister, are you mad?”

“You’ll make me in a moment,” cried Sir Harry. “Curse you! Why do you interfere?”

“May!” cried Claire again. “For pity’s sake – for the sake of your husband, do not do this wicked thing. Come back with me; come back. No one shall know. Sister, dear sister, before it is too late.”

“Nay, it is too late,” whispered Sir Harry. “Choose; will you go back to misery and disgrace?”

At the edge of the wood the scene was just visible, but the words were inaudible. Burnett had not at first recognised his wife; but Claire’s voice rang out clear, and with a sneer he turned to Richard Linnell:

“There!” he said. “What did I say? What are you going to do now?”

“Try and save your foolish wife, idiot, if you are not man enough to interfere.”

He sprang out of the wood as he spoke, but ere he could reach the group, Sir Harry Payne, by a brutal exercise of his strength, swung Claire away from her sister; and as she staggered on the turf she would have fallen but for the quick way in which Richard Linnell caught her in his arms.

She clung to him wildly, as she strove to recover herself.

“Help! Mr Linnell! Quick! my sister!” she panted, as Sir Harry Payne hurriedly threw open the door of the chaise.

“In with you – no nonsense, now,” he cried to May. “Be ready, my lads – gallop hard. I’ll pay!”

He was leaning towards the postboys as he spoke, but as the words left his lips they were half drowned by a piercing shriek that rang out upon the night, sending a thrill through every bystander. It was no hysterical cry, but the agony and dread-born appeal for aid from one in mortal peril.

Sir Harry held the door open, and stood as if paralysed by the cry, for as if instantaneously, a dark lithe figure had glided out from beneath the chaise, caught May’s arm, and, as the word “Perfida!” seemed hissed in her ear, there was a flash as of steel, and a sharp blow was delivered like lightning, twice over.

“Curse you!” cried Sir Harry. “Cowardly dog!” He seized May’s assailant by the throat, but only to utter a low cry of pain, and stagger back from the effect of the heavy blow he received in the shoulder.

To the startled spectators at hand it was all like some scene in the half-light of a drama. No sooner had the dark figure rid himself of Payne than he glided rapidly beneath the chaise again, and before those who ran up to arrest him could reach the farther side of the vehicle, he had darted into the wood and was gone. Just then a voice cried: “Help! for heaven’s sake, or she’ll bleed to death.”

Volume Three – Chapter Seven.

“Too Late! Too Late!”

The words uttered by the first to run to May Burnett’s help seemed to paralyse the party instead of evoking aid, while in the horror and confusion there was no attempt made to pursue, so stunned were all by the rapidity with which one event had succeeded the other.

Lord Carboro’ was the first to recover himself.

“This is no place for you, Miss Denville,” he said. “Will you place yourself under my protection? Or, no,” he added hastily; “Mr Barclay, take Miss Denville home.”

Barclay took a step towards Claire, who stood as if turned to stone, staring wildly at where her sister lay upon the turf, with Mellersh kneeling beside her, while Sir Harry Payne also lay without motion.

“Who was that man who struck Mrs Burnett?” said Lord Carboro’ sharply, but no one answered. “Mr Burnett,” he continued to that individual, as he stood aloof looking on, but speechless with mortification and rage. “Will no one speak? Who is this? You, Mellersh?”

“Yes,” was the reply, in a low, pained voice. “This is a terrible business, Lord Carboro’.”

“It generally is when a lady tries to elope and is stopped. Curse me, though, what a coward that Burnett was to set some one to strike her.”

“Did he?” said Mellersh, in a curious tone.

“Yes; didn’t you see? Is she fainting?”

“Yes,” said Mellersh. “Here, Linnell, help Miss Denville into the chaise, and she can support her sister.”

“No; I forbid it,” cried Lord Carboro’ sharply. “I – ”

“Hush, my lord!” whispered Mellersh. “Do you not see? The wretched woman is stabbed.”

“Stabbed!”

“Claire! Claire! Help! Claire!” wailed May faintly. At her sister’s wild cry a spasm seemed to shoot through Claire’s frame, and she wrested herself from Linnell, and threw herself beside the wretched little woman where she lay.

“May – sister,” she whispered.

“Take me – take me home,” said May, in a feeble, piteous voice. “Did you see him? I was frightened. I was going and he – he stabbed me.”

“Help! A doctor! For heaven’s sake, help!” cried Claire. “May, May, speak to me – dear sister.”

She raised the frail little figure in her arms as she spoke, till the pretty baby head rested upon her bosom, and Linnell shuddered as, in the dim light, he saw the stains that marked her dress and Claire’s hands.

“Miss Denville,” he whispered, “let Colonel Mellersh place her in the chaise. She must be got home at once.”

“Yes,” said Mellersh solemnly. “I can do no more.”

As he spoke he gave a final knot to the handkerchief with which he had bound the slight little arm.

“Who did this?” cried Lord Carboro’ quickly. “Mr Burnett, do you know?”

Burnett did not speak, and the answer came from May, in a feeble, dreamy voice.

“It was poor Louis,” she said. “I saw him this evening – watching me – he must have followed. Ah!”

“Quick! Get in first, Miss Denville,” cried Mellersh. “Draw her away, Dick, for God’s sake! The poor little thing will bleed to death. Good heavens!”

The last words were uttered in a low tone, as from out of the darkness a tall gaunt figure staggered up and sank down beside the injured girl.

“Too late! Too late! May! my child! Blood! She is dead – my darling. She is dead!”

“Hush, sir! She has fainted,” cried Linnell. “Mr Denville! For heaven’s sake, sir, be firm. Command yourself. A terrible mishap. Mrs Burnett must be got back to the town at once. Can you act calmly?”

“Certainly. I’ll try,” groaned the Master of the Ceremonies; and then, “Too late – too late!”

He rose, holding one little hand in his as Claire tottered into the carriage, and May was lifted to her side.

“Now, Mr Denville. In – quick!” cried Linnell. “Straight home. The postboys shall warn a doctor as they pass.”

The door was banged to, the orders given, and the next minute the horses were going at a canter, on no flight to London, but back to the Parade.

Richard Linnell stood gazing after the departing post-chaise for a few moments, to start as a hand was placed upon his shoulder.

“Is she hurt badly, Mellersh?” he whispered.

“Badly? Yes,” was the reply. “I’m afraid it is the last ride she will take – but one.”

“For heaven’s sake, gentlemen, lend a hand here,” cried Lord Carboro’ impatiently; and they turned to where Barclay was now kneeling by Sir Harry Payne, that worthy having just struggled back from a fit of fainting.

“Cursed cowardly blow,” he said in a shrill voice. “Who was it – Burnett? Why couldn’t he call me out?”

“Don’t talk, man,” cried Lord Carboro’. “Here, Mellersh, the fellow’s bleeding like a pig.”

“Am I?” cried Sir Harry faintly. “Damn it. A surgeon. The post-chaise.”

“A knife,” said Mellersh shortly, as he made as rapid an examination as he could in the darkness.

A pocket-knife was handed to him by Barclay, and he ripped up the coat and threw it aside.

“Is – is it dangerous?” faltered Sir Harry.

“Dangerous enough for you to be more silent,” said Mellersh. “Another handkerchief, please. That’ll do. Yes. I’ll use both. There, Sir Harry,” he said, as he bound up the prostrate man’s arm, “we are only a mile from the barracks. You must contrive to walk.”

“Sick as a dog,” muttered Sir Harry; but he struggled to his feet with a little help. “Don’t – don’t let that little beast Burnett come near me. Mellersh, your arm.”

There was no need for his desire to be attended to, for Burnett had stood looking on for a few minutes, and then gone off, to be slowly followed by the others, the wounded man being compelled by faintness to halt from time to time till the barrack gate was reached.

Half an hour later Lord Carboro’ was in consultation with Barclay, Mellersh, and Linnell outside the Denvilles’ house.

“Gravani?” said Lord Carboro’, “to be sure – Louis Gravani. I gave him some painting to do when he was here. Italian – and the knife – a former lover, of course?”

“Mrs Barclay tells me, my lord,” said Barclay, gravely, “that he was really Mrs Burnett’s husband.”

“Dick,” said Mellersh, as they were walking slowly back, “of what are you thinking?”

“Of Claire.”

Mellersh said no more, but when they reached home sat musing over the fact that there was a light in Cora’s window, and that she was looking out. But it was not for him.

Volume Three – Chapter Eight.

The Friend in Need

There was quite a meeting at little Miss Clode’s the next morning, after a heavy storm that had set in during the night; but, though the ordinary atmosphere was fresh, clear, cool and bright after the heavy rain, the social atmosphere grew more dense and lurid, hour by hour, as the callers rolled the news snow-ball on till Annie Clode’s eyes looked as if they would never close again, and her mouth formed a veritable round O.

Miss Clode herself was in a state of nervous prostration, but she forced herself to be in the shop and listen, gathering scraps of information which she sifted, casting aside the rubbish and retaining only what was good, so as to piece together afterwards, and lay before herself what was the whole truth.

The accounts were sufficiently alarming; and among others it was current that Sir Harry Payne was eloping with Claire Denville, when Mrs Burnett followed to stop them, and Frank Burnett in a fit of rage and jealousy, stabbed her and Sir Harry.

Another account stated that it was Sir Matthew Bray who had stabbed Mrs Burnett, and that he had been seized and put in prison for the deed, while Lady Drelincourt had gone mad from love and misery, and had been found by Fisherman Dick and a couple of friends six miles inland, lost on the Downs, drenched with rain, and raving so that she had had to be held down in the cart that the fishermen had been using to carry mackerel.

Everybody smiled at the word mackerel, and thought of French brandy for some reason or another.

This last business was as much canvassed as May Burnett’s injury, for subsequent inquiry proved that Lady Drelincourt really had been brought home by Fisherman Dick, and that she was delirious and attended by two doctors.

Sir Matthew Bray, too, was certainly in prison, and nobody troubled him or herself to discriminate between an arrest for debt set about next day by Josiah Barclay, and one for some criminal offence.

The whole affair was like a godsend, just when scandal was starving for want of sustenance, and Saltinville at its lowest ebb.

Some one had seen the postboys, and knew that Lord Carboro’ was up at the cross-roads, where he had gone to fight a duel with Colonel Mellersh over a card-table quarrel, and they happened to be just in time to help May Burnett when her sister stabbed Sir Harry Payne.

Some one else quarrelled indignantly with this version, for she knew from Lady Drelincourt’s maid that it was her ladyship herself, who in a fit of indignant jealousy had stabbed Claire Denville and Sir Matthew Bray, whom everyone knew she loved desperately, and that she had afterwards gone distracted because she had nearly killed Sir Matthew.