The Master of the Ceremonies

“Good-bye,” he said abruptly. “I shall try to be your friend, and – and I never loved you half so much as I do now.”

He left the room, and Claire heard his footsteps on the path, and then, in spite of herself, she stole towards the window from which she saw him go slowly along the Parade, looking bent, and as if his coming had aged him ten years at least.

The opening of the drawing-room door roused Claire, and turning, she saw that her father had entered, and that he was trembling as he gazed at her with a curiously wistful look that was one long question.

Claire shook her head slowly as she returned his gaze, with her thoughts reverting to the night when she sank fainting where she stood, and the notes of the serenade floated in at the window.

“No, father,” she said softly; “it would be impossible.”

“Yes,” he said feebly; “impossible!”

Volume Three – Chapter Ten.

The Storm-Cloud Bursts

That night, as Claire sat by the open window of her bedroom, where May lay sleeping, and the flowers that she had tended so carefully in the past for the most part withered and dry, her thoughts went back to the morning’s interview with Lord Carboro’, and there was a feeling of regret in her breast as she thought of the old man’s chivalrous devotion.

Then her heart seemed to stand still, and again beat with a wild tumult as she told herself that the silent reproach she had felt was not justified; that it was her own doing, that Richard Linnell was not at her side. For that was his step, and she knew that he would stop opposite to her darkened window and gaze upwards before passing on.

There was pleasure and yet pain in the thought, for she felt that though it was impossible that they could ever even be friends, he must believe in her and she must dwell in his heart.

How often might he not have passed like that, and looked up, thinking of her!

It was a pleasant thought, but one that she dismissed at once, as if it were a temptation.

Trying to stop her ears to the sounds, she crept back from the window, and bent over May, who seemed to be sleeping more easily; and a feeling of hope began to lighten the darkness in her heart, and the black shadow of dread that so oppressed her was forgotten, till, all at once, it came back, blacker, more impenetrable than ever, as the sound of voices loud in altercation rose from below.

Claire’s heart stood still, and she held on by a chair-back, listening with her lips apart, and wondering whether this was the bolt fallen at last – the blow she was always dreading, and that she felt must one day come.

She crept to the door, passed out and listened, closing it after her that the noise might not awaken May, to whom sleep meant life.

Angry voices rose, and then there were the sounds of blows struck apparently with a cane. Then there was a scuffling noise, and the front door was driven back.

“Leave the house, scoundrel! leave my house, insolent dog!” came up sharp and clear in her father’s voice, quivering with anger, and the scuffle was renewed.

“You pay me my wages; you pay me what you owe me, or I don’t stir a step.”

The voice that uttered these last words was thick and husky, and full of menace. It was a familiar voice, though, that Claire recognised, and her cheeks burned with shame as she felt that passers-by, perhaps Richard Linnell, would hear the degrading words that were uttered.

Her sister lying there sick, and this pitiful disturbance that was increasing in loudness, and must be heard by any one who happened to be upon the Parade!

She hurried down to find that the scuffling sounds had been renewed, and as she reached the passage it was to find that her father was trying to drag Isaac to the door, and force him into the road, where quite a little crowd was collecting.

“Leave this house, sir, directly.”

“I shan’t for you,” cried Isaac, resisting stoutly. “I want my wages. I want my box.”

“Leave this house, you drunken insolent scoundrel!”

“Father! for pity’s sake,” cried Claire, trying to interfere.

“No, no; stand back, my child,” cried the old man angrily. “He has come back again to-night tipsy. He has insulted me once more, and he shall not stay here – I can turn him out, and I will.”

“Not you, and I shan’t go,” hiccupped Isaac, seizing the plinth at the bottom of the balusters and holding on. “I don’t go from here ’thout my money – every penny of it, so now, old Denville.”

“Pray, pray let me pass, father, and shut the door,” cried Claire.

“No, my dear,” said the old man, whose blood was now up. “He shall leave this house at once.”

“No, I shan’t leave neither without my box.”

The struggle went on, and the lamp would have been knocked off the bracket but for Claire’s hand. The contending parties swayed here and there, but it was evident that the footman was far the stronger, while Denville’s forces were failing moment by moment.

“Can I be of any assistance, Mr Denville?” said a voice that thrilled Claire through and through, but which made her shrink back up a few stairs to avoid being seen.

“Who’s that? – Mr Linnell? Yes,” panted Denville. “My servant, sir – my lacquey. This is the fourth time he has come back from being absent without leave, intoxicated, sir. Tipsy. Not fit to come into a gentleman’s presence.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Isaac – “Gentleman’s presence! I don’t call you a gentleman. Why, you’re all that’s mean and shabby and poor. Just you pay me my wages in arrears.”

“Come to-morrow, scoundrel,” said Denville loftily. “Mr Linnell, if you would kindly send one of the people outside for a constable. He will find one by the Assembly-Room. Let him say that the man is wanted at Mr Denville’s – at the Master of the Ceremonies’, and he will come on directly.”

Linnell glanced up at where Claire was turning back in shame and distress of mind, little thinking that in a few minutes she would be bravely standing at her father’s side.

“Fetch a constable!” cried Isaac defiantly. “Do, if you dare. What do I care for a constable?”

“Why don’t you pay the man his wages?” said a voice at the door.

“Ah, to be sure,” cried Isaac, with a tipsy laugh. “Why don’t you pay the man his wages? ’Cause you can’t. Beggarly old upstart.”

“Silence, you scoundrel!” cried Linnell fiercely, “or I’ll drag you out and throw you over the cliff for your insolence.”

“Do it – do it!” cried Isaac fiercely. “Who’s afraid?”

“Silence, dog!” cried Denville, catching up his cane.

“Don’t strike him, Mr Denville,” said Linnell. “Some one there fetch a constable. Five shillings for the first man who brings one here.”

“Don’t you, m’lads,” cried Isaac. “He daren’t send for a constable. I tell you he daren’t – not for me. Send for one for himself.”

Claire trembled and shuddered at those words; and, had it been possible, she would have ended the scene at any cost, but she was helpless.

For a moment Linnell had thought of seizing and dragging out the tipsy servant; but on second consideration he felt that it might just as well be done by some one in authority, so, hurrying out, he despatched one of the crowd in another direction to that taken by the two or three who had hurried off on the promise of a reward, and then turned back to see if he could be of any further service.

“Cons’able for me!” said Isaac, with tipsy gravity. “I like that. I like that – much. Let him come. Make him pay me my wages. Then I’ll go. Not before, if all the old Masters o’ Ceremonies in England wanted me to go.”

“The insolent scoundrel!” panted Denville; “after all I’ve done for him since he came to me a boy.”

“Done for me! Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Isaac; “kept me on short commons, and didn’t pay my wages. Now, then, are you going to pay my money?”

“Here he is.” “Here’s one,” rose in chorus, and way was made for the fussy-looking individual who occupied the post of chief constable of Saltinville.

“Now, then, what’s this?” he said.

“Tipsy servant,” chorussed half – a – dozen voices. “Drunk.”

“My servant, Mr Cordy,” said Denville importantly. “He has misconducted himself again and again. You see the condition he is in.”

“Yes, I see,” said the constable. “Come along.”

“Wait till he pays my wages,” hiccupped Isaac.

“You can talk about that another time,” said the constable importantly. “Come along.”

He seized the footman, gave him a shake which wrenched his fingers from their hold upon the bottom of the balusters, and with another shake jerked him upon his feet.

But Isaac was not going to be dragged off like that without making a scene, and he shouted out:

“Stop!”

“Well, what is it?” said the constable.

“Does he give me into custody, cons’ble?”

“Yes. Come along.”

“Then I give him into custody – do you hear? – custody – for murder. I won’t go alone.”

“There, come along, fool,” cried the constable.

“No – not without him,” cried Isaac. “Murder!”

“Silence!” cried Denville excitedly, as Claire rushed down the stairs and caught her father’s arm.

“Shan’t silence!” yelled the man, who now threw off his half-tipsy, contemptuous manner, and seemed stung by the treatment he had received into a fit of furious passion. “I give him into custody – for murder.”

“Nonsense! Hold your tongue, and come along,” cried the constable; while Linnell seized the man on the other side, and hurriedly tried to force him out.

But it is not easy to get a man along a narrow passage if he resists fiercely; and so they found, for, setting his feet against the edge of the dining-room door, Isaac thrust himself back, and yelled to the throng at the door:

“Do you hear? For murder! I charge this man – Denville – with killing old Lady Teigne.”

“Silence, villain!” hissed Linnell in his ear, as he darted an agonised glance at where Claire was half supporting her father, while the black cloud she had seen impending so long seemed to have fallen at last.

“Silence? When there’s murder?” shouted Isaac. “I tell you I heard a noise, and got up, and then I saw him go to Lady Teigne’s room, the night she was murdered. Ask him there who did it, and see what he’ll say.”

“Father, come away!” panted Claire, as she threw herself before him, as if to defend him against this terrible charge.

“What’s that?” cried the constable. “Oh, nonsense! Come along.”

“I tell you it’s true,” cried Isaac, with drunken fierceness; “it’s true. I saw him go to her room. Let him deny it if he can.”

Denville stood up, holding tightly by Claire’s arm, and looking wildly from one to the other as a strange murmur rose amongst the fast-augmenting crowd. Then, as if it were vain to fight against the charge, he made a lurch forward, recovered himself, and sank into a chair, Richard Linnell catching sight of his ghastly countenance before he covered it with his hands.

“It is a false charge, constable,” cried Linnell hastily. “Take that man away.”

“It’s all true,” snarled Isaac, with drunken triumph. “Look at him. Let him say he didn’t do it if he dare!”

As every eye was fixed upon him, the Master of the Ceremonies did not move; he made no bold defiance, but seemed half paralysed by the bolt that had fallen – one from which his child had failed to screen him, though she had thrown herself upon his breast.

Volume Three – Chapter Eleven.

After the Storm

Matters ran their course rapidly during the following days. The black cloud that had so long been threatening had come down lower and nearer, and had at last poured forth its storm upon Denville’s devoted head. And now, as he sat thinking, all that had passed seemed misty and dreamlike, and yet he knew that it was true.

There was the finish of that terrible night, when, forced by the direct charge of his servant, the constable had taken steps against him. He had been arrested; there had been magisterial examinations, and appeals to him to declare his innocency; he, the magistrates’ respected townsman, charged with this horrible crime by a drunken servant!

But he had made no denial, only listened with a strange apathy, as if stunned, and ready to give up everything as hopeless. In fact, so willing did he seem to accept his position that, after examination and adjournment – one of which was really to give the broken-down, prostrate man an opportunity for making some defence – the magistrates had had no option but to commit the prisoner for trial.

All Saltinville had been greatly concerned, and thus taken off the scent of the previous trouble at the Master of the Ceremonies’ house. The departure of Frank Burnett from the town, and the state of his wife’s health, became exceedingly secondary matters. Sir Harry Payne’s wound was of no more importance than Lady Drelincourt’s rheumatic fever, brought on by exposure on the Downs at her age. People forgot, too, to notice that Sir Matthew Bray was clear of his arrest, and to heed the rumour floating about at Miss Clode’s, that Lady Drelincourt had paid Sir Matthew’s debts, her affection for the big heavy dragoon having received a strong accession from the fact that her love was no longer divided, her overfed dog having died, evidently from plethora.

Ordinary affairs were in abeyance, and everyone talked of Lady Teigne’s murder, and metaphorically dug the old belle up again to investigate the affair, and, so to speak, hold a general inquest without the coroner’s help.

Lord Carboro’ took the matter down on the pier with him and sat at the end to watch Fisherman Dick shrimping; and as he watched him he did not think of the sturdy Spanish-looking fellow, but of Lady Teigne’s jewels, and as he thought he tried to undo this knot.

“If Denville killed the old woman for her diamonds, how is it he remained so poor?”

“Thinking, Lord Carboro’?” said a voice.

The old beau looked up quickly and encountered the dark eyes of Major Rockley, who had also been intently watching Dick Miggles, using an opera-glass, so as to see him empty the shrimps into his creel.

“Yes: thinking,” said Lord Carboro’ in a short, sharp way. “Like to know what I was thinking?”

The Major shrugged his shoulders.

“Of the sea, perhaps, or the vessels passing, or Lady Drelincourt’s illness.”

“No, sir,” said Lord Carboro’ shortly. “I was thinking of Lady Teigne’s jewels.”

Rockley raised his eyebrows, and looked at the old man curiously.

“Of Lady Teigne’s jewels?”

“Yes, sir; and it seems a strange thing to me that if Denville killed the old woman for her diamonds, he has not become rich.”

“To be sure,” said Rockley; “it does seem strange.”

“It’s all strange, sir, deuced strange,” said the old man. “Took me aback, for I never suspected Denville, and I don’t suspect him now.”

They stood looking at each other for a few minutes, and then Rockley said quietly:

“A great many people seem to believe him innocent. Do you think they will get him off?”

“Yes, of course – of course, sir. It would be an abominable thing to bring such a charge home to the poor old fellow. Why, I suppose, sir, that even you would not wish that.”

“I should be deeply grieved, my lord,” said Rockley. “Good morning.”

“The scoundrel’s still thinking about Claire,” said the old beau, as he sat gazing after the handsome cavalry officer. “Well, it’s of no use to sit here. I’ll go up to Clode’s, and see if there is any news.”

He trudged slowly along the pier and the Parade, stopping now and then to take a pinch of snuff.

He was indulging in a very big pinch, standing by the edge of the path, when there was the trampling of hoofs, and Cora Dean’s pony-carriage was drawn up by his side.

“Let me drive you there,” said Cora’s deep, rich voice.

“Drive me! Where?” said the old man.

“Where you ought to be going; to the prison to see poor Mr Denville, and get him out. I haven’t patience with you people leaving the poor old man there – you who professed to be his friends.”

“Hah! Yes! No, I don’t think I’ll trouble you, my dear Miss Dean,” said the old man, recovering his balance, and speaking in his old sarcastic tone. “You are such a female Jehu.”

“Such a what?” said Cora.

“Female Jehu, my dear. You drive furiously, but you can’t control your steeds. I don’t want to be brought ashore in triumph. It’s all very well for you to come on to the beach like a goddess in your car, but to me it means rheumatism and pain. So, no thanks.”

“And you are going to leave Mr Denville in trouble?”

“Perhaps,” said his lordship drily. “We’re a heartless lot down here, and I’m one of the worst.”

“And you think that poor old man killed Lady Teigne.”

“No, I don’t, my dear Miss Dean; but even if he had done so I don’t think he ought to be punished. It was a meritorious action.”

“Oh, Lord Carboro’!”

“It was, my dear madam; and if some enterprising party would come and kill off Lady Drelincourt and your humble servant, and a few more of that stamp, it would be a blessing to society. What do you think?”

“I think that a poor old man is lying in prison,” said Cora Dean, tightening her reins; “that his broken-hearted child is tending a sick sister, and that the world of society talks about it all as if it were stuff sent on purpose to supply them with news. Lord Carboro’, I used to wish I were well in society. I don’t wish it now. Good morning.”

“One moment,” said the old man hastily. “You’ll shake hands?”

He held out his, but Cora gave it a tap with her whip handle, and her ponies went off at a canter, leaving his lordship hat in hand.

“And looking dooced ridiculous,” he said angrily. And then, “Confound the jade!” he muttered. “How dare she!”

Then his wrinkled countenance changed, and a pleasant smile took the place of the angry look.

“Confound her! What a dig to give me with her sharp tongue. Well, it’s true enough, and I like her for it. Does she like Claire, or does she hate her and pretend to feel all this? Who can say? The more you know of a woman, the greater mystery she seems. Poor old Denville! The place doesn’t seem natural without him and his snuff-box. I miss him horribly. Now I wonder whether they’d miss me if I were to go – as I shall go – soon.”

He walked thoughtfully on.

“Yes; they’d miss me, and talk about me as if I were a confounded old curiosity, and make jocular remarks about my donkey – by George, how my corns shoot, I wish he were here. But no one will care when I’m gone – not one; and no one will be the better for my having lived.”

He walked on slowly, thinking of the last time he had seen Claire, and of the troubles that had fallen to her share, and then he muttered:

“Yes! something must be done.”

Volume Three – Chapter Twelve.

From Parade to Prison

Sunken of eye, hollow of cheek, with the silvery stubble of many days’ growth upon his chin, glistening in the bar of light that came through the grated window, Stuart Denville, Master of the Ceremonies at Saltinville, high-priest to the votaries of fashion who worshipped at that seaside shrine, sat upon his truckle bed, his head down upon his hands, his elbows on his knees, gazing apparently at the dancing motes in the well-defined ray of sunshine that illumined his cell.

It seemed as if he saw in those tiny motes that danced and rose and fell, the fashionable people who had so influenced his career; but hour after hour, as he sat there motionless, thinking of his arrest, his examination, the fashionable world was to him something that had never existed: he could see only the terminative.

On first picturing that terrible end, when, with hideous exactness, the scaffold, the hangman, and the chaplain whispering words of hope and comfort to the thin, grey-haired, pinioned figure moving on in the slow procession had loomed up before him in all their terrible minutiae, he had shivered and shrunk away; but, after a few repetitions of this horrible waking dream, he had grown so accustomed to it that he found himself conjuring up the scene, and gazing at it mentally with a curious kind of interest that gradually became fascination.

As to the final stage, it would not be so painful as many pangs, mental and bodily, which he had suffered; and, as to the future, that troubled him but little. He saw no terrors there, only a long restful sleep, freed from the cares and sufferings that had for long past fallen to his lot.

There were no shudders now, but only a sad wistful smile and a sigh almost of content, the rest of the future seemed so welcome.

“Yes,” he said at last, as he pressed his trembling white hands to his lips, and left his seat to pace the cell, falling for the moment involuntarily into his old mincing pace, but stopping short and gazing up at the little patch of blue sky he could see; “yes – rest – sleep – Oh, God, I am so weary. Let it end!”

He stood with his hands clasped before him, and now a cloud came over his countenance, almost the only cloud that troubled him now. Claire; if she only could know – if he could tell her all – his temptations – his struggles – the long fight he had passed through.

Then he thought over his past – the mistakes of his life. How much happier he might have been if he had chosen differently. How piteous had been all this sham and pretence, what a weary existence it had been – what insults he had suffered for the sake of keeping up his miserable position, and obtaining a few guineas.

May!

The thought of his child – his favoured one, with her pretty innocent rosebud of a face and its appealing, trusting eyes. How he had worshipped that girl! How she had been his idol. How he had believed in her and sacrificed everything for her sake; and now – he lay in prison, one whom the world called murderer; and she, his idol, to whom he had sacrificed so long, for aught he knew, passing away, and everyone turned from him and his family as if they were lepers.

Well, he was a social leper. He had made no defence. This man had charged him with the crime, and he had not denied it. What wonder that people shrank from him as if he were unclean, and kept away. It was his fate. The world turned from him – son – daughter. They feared the contamination of the gaol.

No suffering that the executioner even could inflict would equal the agony of mind through which he had passed.

He clasped his hands more tightly and gazed fixedly before him, his lips moving at last, as he said in a low husky whisper:

“All forsake me now. The Master of the Ceremonies must prepare for the great ceremony of the law. Oh, that it were over, and the rest were come!”

He was at the lowest ebb of his misery amid his meditations and thoughts of home and the social wreck that was there with her thin baby face, when there was the distant sound of bolts being shot. Then there were steps and the rustle of a dress, the rattle of a great key in the door. Next the bolts of this were shot at top and bottom with a noisy jar; the door was thrust open, and the gaoler ushered in a veiled figure in black. Then the door was closed, the locks and bolts rattled; the heavy steps of the gaoler sounded upon the stone floor, and then the farther door opened and closed.

There was a moment’s silence before, with a quick rustling sound, veil and cloak were thrown aside upon the bed, and Claire’s soft arms clasped the wasted, trembling form, drawing the grey careworn face down upon her breast as she sobbed out:

“Father – father, has it come to this?” Denville remained silent for a few moments, and then with an exceeding bitter cry:

“My child! my child!” he wailed. “I said you had forsaken me in my sore need.”

“Forsaken you, dear? Oh, no, no, no!” whispered Claire, fondling him as if he had been a child, and gently drawing him to the bed, upon which she sank, while he fell upon his knees before her, utterly weak and helpless now, as he yielded to the caresses she lavished upon him, and she whispered words that seemed full of comfort – forerunners of the rest he had prayed for so short a tune before.

“Forsaken you?” she whispered. “Oh, my dear, dear father! How could you think it of your child!”

“The world says I am a murderer, and I am in prison.”

“Hush!” she cried, laying her hand upon his lips. “It was only this morning I could get permission to see you.”

She laid her soft white hand upon his lips as she spoke, and then, seeming to make an effort and check her own emotion, she drew him closer to her.