The Master of the Ceremonies

“You told Miss Dean so when you took them to her.”

“And how do you know that?”

“You told her so when you took them to her, and she told me,” said Barclay.

“Then she told you wrong,” said Fisherman Dick sulkily. “It warn’t then.”

“Look here, my man,” said Barclay. “You may not know it, but very likely you will find yourself in an awkward position if you do not speak out.”

“Shall I?” growled the man defiantly.

“Yes; a very awkward position. You know that Mr Denville is lying under sentence of death for the murder of Lady Teigne, and stealing her jewels?”

“Oh, yes; I know all about that,” growled the fisherman.

“Well, then, what will you say if I tell you that those ornaments you sold me have been identified as Lady Teigne’s jewels?”

Fisherman Dick’s jaw dropped, and curious patches and blotches of white appeared in his sun-browned face.

“Oh, Dick! Dick!” cried his wife, “why don’t you tell the truth? No, don’t: it may get you into trouble.”

“I ain’t going to speak,” growled Dick. “’Tain’t likely.”

“Hush, Barclay,” whispered Linnell, taking off his hat as Claire Denville came up hurriedly, leaning on her brother’s arm.

She caught Barclay’s hand quickly, and said in a hurried whisper:

“You are inquiring about that, Mr Barclay? Have you found out anything?”

“No; the fellow will not speak,” said Barclay pettishly.

“Then stop – pray stop!” said Claire. “Don’t ask – don’t ask him any more.”

“My dear Claire, this is madness,” cried Morton excitedly. “We must know the truth.”

“No, no,” said Claire faintly. “It is better not.”

“I say it is better out. You foolish girl, it is our last chance for him.”

“Morton,” whispered Claire; “suppose – ”

“Better the truth than the doubt,” cried Morton. “You Dick Miggles – ”

“Stop!” cried Richard Linnell. “Mr Denville, your sister’s wishes should be respected.”

Claire darted a grateful glance at him, and then her face contracted, and she turned from him with a weary sigh.

“Mr Linnell,” cried Morton, “I wish to spare my sister’s feelings; but it is my duty as my father’s son to prove him innocent if I can, and I’ll have the truth out of this man.”

“All right, Mr Mort’n,” said Dick. “Don’t be hard on a fellow. You and me used to be good mates over many a fishing trip, when you used to come down o’ nights out o’ the balc’ny.”

Morton turned a horrified look upon Fisherman Dick, as the idea flashed across his brain, that the man who knew so well how he came down, must have known the way up. It was but a passing fancy, for there was that in the rough fisherman’s countenance that seemed to disarm suspicion.

“Well, what’s the matter now, Master Mort’n?”

“I want you to speak out, Dick.”

“Morton – brother!” whispered Claire appealingly.

“Be silent, Claire,” he replied angrily. “Now, Dick, speak out. You, Mrs Miggles, you are telling him to be silent. I will not have it. Now, Dick, how did you get those jewels?”

“Shrimped ’em. Off the pier.”

“And how came they there?”

“Chucked in, I s’pose,” growled the fisherman. “How should I know?”

“Stop!” cried Morton suddenly. “Let me think – my head is all confused, Mr Barclay – so much trouble lately, but I seem to recollect – yes. Dick Miggles, you know; some one – that night we were fishing down among the piles under the pier.”

“Yes, I recklect oftens fishing along o’ you there, Master Mort’n.”

“Yes, but one night – when I stole down, soon after that terrible business. Why, you recollect, Mr Linnell. You caught me.”

“Yes, of course. I recollect,” said Linnell eagerly.

“Dick Miggles and I were fishing that night under the pier, and a man came and threw something in.”

Claire turned ghastly pale, and Linnell stretched out his hand to catch her, but she waved him off and stood firm.

“You recollect, Dick?”

“No,” said the fisherman sulkily. “I don’t recklect.”

Claire uttered a low moan. It was horrible, and she suffered a martyrdom as she stood there, helpless now to speak or resist, only able, with her hearing terribly acute, to listen to her brother dragging out from this man perhaps some fresh token of her father’s guilt.

“You do recollect,” cried Morton fiercely. “You got up and looked between the planks, and you said he had thrown something into the sea.”

“Oh – ah – yes – I recollect now: some one come and threw a stone in.”

“Some one would not come down to the end of the pier to throw in a stone,” said Barclay drily.

“No,” said Morton; “and Dick looked up and watched and saw who it was. He pretended he couldn’t see – ”

Claire’s heart sank lower and lower. It was too horrible.

“But I’m sure he could.”

“No, Master Mort’n, I couldn’t see.”

“I noticed your manner then, Dick. I’m sure you did see, and that’s why you did not speak.”

“What’s why?” growled Dick, assuming a vacant air.

“You knew who it was, and that something was thrown in that you meant to dredge for, and you did and found those jewels.”

Fisherman Dick was posed, and he rubbed his boots together; but he looked more vacant than ever.

“You don’t want to be taken to prison and made to speak, Dick?”

“No!” shouted Mrs Miggles, “and he shan’t go.”

“Then speak out, Dick,” cried Morton; but the rough fisherman only frowned and tightened his lips.

“No; I don’t ’member,” he said, shaking his head.

“You do; and you saw who it was. Speak.”

“Morton!” gasped Claire, staggering to him, and throwing herself on his breast. “I cannot bear it. For God’s sake, stop!”

“No,” cried the lad; “for my father’s sake I’ll have the truth. You, Dick Miggles, I order you to speak.”

For the first time in his life, as Morton Denville stood there erect and stern, he looked a man.

“Can’t,” said Dick Miggles. “Don’t know.”

“You do, you coward!” cried Morton. “You will not speak for fear of getting into trouble. Look at the trouble we are in, and you might clear us.”

“Morton, dear Morton!” moaned Claire, with horror-stricken face.

“Silence, sister!” cried Morton, throwing her off. “He shall speak: if it was my own father who threw those things into the sea that night. But it was not. It was some man with a heavy tread; and he stopped and did what my father never did in his life. He was smoking as he stood above our heads, and he got a light and lit a fresh cigar.”

“Oh!”

It was a low, piteous wail, full of relief from Claire. It could not have been her father, then, and she leaned helpless on Barclay’s arm.

Morton tried to help his sister, but she smiled at him sadly as she endeavoured to rise, and he turned to Fisherman Dick.

“Come, Dick,” he said, “we used to be good friends and fishermen together.”

“Ay, lad, ay, so we did,” said the rough fellow, with a smile.

“Then will you not help me now I am in such trouble?”

“Ay, lad, I’d like to; but I don’t see how I can.”

“Dick Miggles, you’re a coward,” cried Morton. “When I was a boy – ”

“Nay, nay, Master Mort’n, take that back again. No coward.”

“Yes: a coward,” cried Morton angrily. “When I was a lad, how many times did I know about cargoes being run, and your house being crammed with spirits and tobacco and lace and silk?”

“How many times, my lad?”

“Yes, how many times? Wasn’t I always true to you as a mate I fished with?”

“Yes; that you was, Master Mort’n: that you was.”

“And now you see my poor old father condemned for a crime he did not commit, and that must have been done by the wretch who threw those jewels into the water. You know who did it. You saw him that night, and you will not speak.”

“Dursn’t, my lad, dursn’t,” growled Miggles.

“You did see him, then?”

Dick Miggles looked in all directions to avoid his questioner’s eye, but in vain: Morton went up close to him, and took him by the thick blue woollen jersey he wore, and held him.

“You did see him?”

“Well, all right, then; all right, then, Master Mort’n. I did see him,” growled Miggles, “but I won’t say another word.”

“You shall, if I tear it out of you,” cried Morton. “Now then: who was it?”

“Dunno!” growled Miggles.

“You do know, sir. Speak out.”

“I can’t, Master Mort’n, sir. I dursn’t. It would get me into no end of trouble,” said Miggles desperately. “I can’t tell ye. I won’t, there!”

He threw Morton off and folded his arms upon his breast, looking at all defiantly.

“I suppose you know, my man,” said Barclay sternly, “that you will be summoned as a witness before the judge, and forced to speak?”

“No judge won’t make me speak unless I like,” said Miggles defiantly. “I tell you all I won’t say another word and get myself into trouble, so there!”

Just then Claire took a step or two forward, laid her hands upon Dick Miggles’ broad breast, and looked up in his great bronzed, bearded face.

The fisherman winced, and his wife hugged the child to her, and uttered a low sob.

“My poor dear father is lying in prison under sentence of death – my poor grey-haired old father,” she said softly. “Perhaps a word from you will save his life – will save mine, for – for my heart is breaking. I could not live if – if – I cannot say it,” she sobbed in a choking voice, as she sank upon her knees and raised her clasped hands to the great fellow. “Pray, pray, speak.”

Fisherman Dick’s face worked; he stared round him and out to sea; and then, with a low, hoarse sob, he roared out:

“Don’t, Miss Claire, don’t; I can’t abear it. I will speak. It was that big orficer as fought the dool with Mr Linnell here.”

“Rockley!” cried Morton wildly.

“Ay! Him. Master Mort’n. I see him plain.”

No one spoke, but Linnell involuntarily took off his hat, and Barclay did the same, while Morton stood for a few moments looking down at the rapt countenance of his sister, as with eyes closed and face upturned to heaven she knelt there, apparently unconscious of the presence of others, her lips moving and slowly repeating the thanksgiving flowing mutely from her heart.

No one moved as they stood there in the broad sunshine at the edge of the chalk cliff, with the clear blue sky above their heads, the green down behind, and the far-spreading glistening sea at their feet. Then Morton Denville softly bent his knee by his sister’s side, and to Richard Linnell the silence seemed that of some grand cathedral where a prayer of thanksgiving was being offered up to God.

“And may I be forgiven, too,” he muttered, as he looked down on that worn upturned face with the blue veins netting the temples, and the closed eyes, “forgiven all my cruel doubts – all my weak suspicions of you, my darling! for I love you with all my heart.”

Claire rose slowly from her knees, taking her brother’s hand, and a slight flush came into her cheeks as she saw the reverent attitude of all around.

She looked her thanks, and then turned to Miggles, catching his broad rough hand in both of hers, and kissing it again and again.

“May God bless you!” she whispered. “You have saved my father’s life.”

She let fall the hand, which Miggles raised and thrust in his breast, in a strange, bashful way. Then, turning quickly to Morton, she took his arm and looked at Barclay.

“Mr Barclay, will you do what is necessary at once? My brother and I are going over to the gaol.”

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Six.

Brought Home

“Gentlemen,” said Colonel Lascelles, “I am going to ask you to excuse me. You know my old fashion – bed betimes. Rockley will take the chair, and I hope you will enjoy yourselves. Good-night.”

The grey-headed old Colonel quitted the mess-room, and the wine was left for the card-tables, after the customary badinage and light conversation that marked these meetings.

It had been a special night, and a few extra toasts had been proposed, notably the healths of Sir Matthew Bray and his lady, it having leaked out that the young baronet had at last led the fair Lady Drelincourt to the altar, with all her charms.

Sir Matthew, prompted a great deal by Sir Harry Payne – who had but lately rejoined the regiment, looking pale and ill – had made his response, and he was a good deal congratulated, the last to speak to him about his noble spouse being Sir Harry.

“Why, Matt,” he exclaimed, “you look as if you were going to be hung. Aren’t you happy, man?”

“Happy!” said Sir Matthew, in deep, melodramatic tones. “You speak as if you had not seen my wife.”

Sir Harry stared him full in the face for a few moments, and then burst into a hearty laugh, but winced directly, and drew in his breath sharply, for the knife Louis Gravani had used struck pretty deep.

Card-playing went on for a time, the stakes being light, and then succeeded a bout of drinking, when, with a contemptuous look at Mellersh, Rockley, who had been drinking hard, and was strange and excitable, called upon the party to honour a toast he was about to propose.

“Claire Denville,” he cried in a curious, reckless tone which made Sir Harry stare.

Mellersh involuntarily glanced round, as if fearing that Richard Linnell was present.

“Well, Colonel,” said Rockley mockingly, “you don’t drink. Surely you are not trying to steal away my mistress.”

“I? No,” said Mellersh. “I did not know you had one.”

“Hang it, sir!” cried Rockley, “I have just given her name as a toast. Do you refuse to drink it?”

“Yes,” said Mellersh coldly. “It seems to me bad taste to propose the health of a lady whose father is under sentence of death, and whose brother is dying not many yards away.”

“Curse you, sir! who are you, to pretend to judge me?” cried Rockley furiously. “Gentlemen, I protest against this sort of thing. What was Lascelles thinking about to invite him, after what has taken place between us?”

“Here, Rockley, be quiet,” said Sir Matthew.

“I shall not,” cried Rockley. “It is an insult to me. The Colonel shall answer for it, and this Mellersh too.”

“Nonsense!” cried Sir Harry. “Nonsense, man; you can’t quarrel with a guest. Never mind the toast. Sit down, and let’s have a rubber. Rockley’s a bit excited, Mellersh. Don’t take any notice of a few hot words.”

“Silence!” cried Rockley, whose voice was thick with the brandy he had been imbibing day by day. “I want my toast drunk as it should be – Claire Denville.”

“Sit down, man,” cried several of his brother-officers. “Here, let’s have a rubber. Sit down, Rockley, and cut. Come, Mellersh.”

The latter shrugged his shoulders, and allowed himself to be drawn into a game, cutting, and finding himself Rockley’s adversary.

He was singularly fortunate, and in addition he played with the skill of a master, the consequence being that he and Sir Harry Payne won.

Rockley rose from the table furious with suppressed anger, and, catching up a pack of cards, he would have thrown them in Mellersh’s face had not Sir Harry struck at his arm, so that the cards flew all over the room.

Mellersh turned pale, but a couple of the most sober officers drew him aside, Sir Matthew joining them directly.

“Don’t take any notice, Mellersh,” he said. “We’re all sorry. Rockley’s as drunk as an owl. They’re going to get him off to bed.”

“It was a deliberate insult, gentlemen,” said Mellersh quietly.

“Yes, but he doesn’t know what he’s about,” said Sir Matthew. “We all apologise.”

Meanwhile the rest had summoned several of the regimental servants to help in getting Rockley from the room; but he resisted till, seeing that his case was hopeless, he suddenly exclaimed:

“Well, then, I’ll go, if you’ll let me propose one more toast.”

“No, no!” was chorused.

“Then I shan’t go,” cried Rockley; “I’ll stop and see it out.”

“Let him give a toast,” said Sir Harry, “and then he’ll go. On your honour, Rockley?”

“On my honour,” he said: and he seemed to have grown suddenly sober. “Fill, gentlemen. The toast is a lady – not Miss Denville, since it offends Colonel Mellersh. I will give you the health of a lady who has long been one of my favourites. Her health even that arch sharper will not refuse to drink – my mistress, Cora Dean.”

In rapid succession, and in the midst of a deep silence, the claret in Colonel Mellersh’s glass, and the glass itself, were dashed in Major Rockley’s face.

Rockley uttered a howl of rage that did not seem to be human; and he would have sprung at Mellersh’s throat had he not been restrained, while the latter remained perfectly calm.

“There is no need for us to tear ourselves like brute beasts, gentlemen,” he said. “Major Rockley shall have the pleasure of shooting the arch sharper – myself – where you will arrange – to-morrow morning; but before I leave I beg to say that Miss Dean is a lady whom I hold in great honour, and any insult to her is an insult to me.”

“Loose me, Bray. Let me get at the cowardly trickster and cheat,” yelled Rockley. “He shall not leave here without my mark upon him. Do you hear? Loose me. He shall not go.”

He struggled so furiously that he freed himself and was rushing at Mellersh, when the door was thrown open and the grey-headed old Colonel of the regiment entered.

“What is this?” said the Colonel sternly. “Major Rockley, are you mad? I have business, sir, at once, with you.”

Rockley stared from one to the other, and seemed to be sobered on the instant.

“Business with me?” he said quickly. “Well, what is it? Payne, I leave myself in your hands. Now, Colonel, what is it?”

The old Colonel drew aside and pointed to the door.

“Go to my quarters, sir,” he said sternly. “But you should have some one with you beside me. Sir Harry Payne, you are Major Rockley’s greatest intimate. Go with him.”

Sir Harry was, after Mellersh, the most sober of the party, his wound having necessitated his being abstemious, and he turned to the Colonel.

“He was very drunk,” he said. “We’ll get him to bed. I’ll talk to Mellersh when he is gone, and nothing shall come of it.”

“You have misunderstood my meaning, Payne,” said the Colonel sternly. “I am not interfering about a card quarrel, sir, or a contemptible brawl about some profligate woman. This is an affair dealing with the honour of our regiment, as well as Major Rockley’s liberty.”

A spasm seemed to have seized Rockley, but he was calm the next moment, and walked steadily to the Colonel’s quarters, not a word being spoken till the old officer threw open the door of his study, and they were in the presence of Lord Carboro’, Barclay, Morton Denville, and the Chief Constable.

The Colonel was the only one who took a chair, the others bowing in answer to the invitation to be seated, and remaining standing.

“Now, Mr Denville,” said the Colonel, “Major Rockley is here: will you have the goodness to repeat the words that you said to me? I must warn you, though, once more, that this is a terrible charge against your brother-officer, and against our regiment. I should advise you to be careful, and unless you have undoubted proof of what you say, to hesitate before you repeat the charge.”

“Sir,” said Morton, standing forward, “I am fighting the battle of my poor father, who has been condemned to death for a crime of which he is innocent.”

“He has been tried by the laws of his country, Mr Denville, and convicted.”

“Because everything seemed so black against him, sir, through the devilish machinations of that man.”

“Be careful, sir,” said the Colonel sternly. “Once more, be careful.”

“I must speak out, sir,” cried Morton firmly. “I repeat it – the devilish machinations of this man – who has been the enemy and persecutor of my family ever since he has been here.”

“To the point, sir,” said the Colonel, as Rockley stood up with a contemptuous look in his dark eyes, and his tall, well-built figure drawn to his full height.

“I will to the point, sir,” said Morton. “I charge this man, the insulter and defamer of my sister, with being the murderer of Lady Teigne!”

“Hah!”

It was Major Rockley who uttered that ejaculation: and, springing forward, he had in an instant seized Morton Denville by the throat and borne him against the wall.

It was a momentary burst of fierce rage that was over directly; and, dropping his hands and stepping back, the Major stood listening as Morton went on.

“Taking advantage of the similarity of figure between himself and my unfortunate brother, he took Frederick Denville’s uniform one night for a disguise, and to cast the suspicion upon an innocent man, should he be seen, and then went to the house and killed that miserable old woman as she slept.”

“You hear this charge, Rockley?” said the Colonel.

“Yes, I hear,” was the scornful reply.

“Go on, Mr Denville: I am bound to hear you,” said the Colonel. “What reason do you give for this impossible act?”

“Poverty, sir. Losses at the gaming tables. To gain possession of Lady Teigne’s jewels.”

“Pish!” ejaculated Rockley, with his dark eyes flashing.

“Those jewels proved to be false,” continued Morton, “and at the first opportunity Major Rockley took them, in the dead of the night, and threw them from the end of the pier into the sea.”

“How do you know that?” said the Colonel.

“I was on the platform beneath, fishing, sir; and the fisherman I was with dredged them up afterwards, and sold them to Mr Barclay.”

“Yes,” said that individual. “I have them still.”

“Bah! Absurd!” cried Rockley, throwing back his head. “Colonel Lascelles, are you going to believe this folly?”

“I am powerless, Major Rockley,” said the Colonel in a quick, sharp manner. “This charge is made in due form.”

“And it is enough for me, sir,” said the constable, stepping forward. “Major Rockley, I arrest you on the charge of murder.”

Rockley made a quick movement towards the door, but stopped short.

“Pish! I was surprised,” he exclaimed, as the constable sprang in his way. “What do you want to do?”

“Take you, sir.”

“What? Disgraced like this?” cried Rockley furiously.

“Colonel, you will not allow the insult to the regiment. Give your word that I will appear.”

“I am helpless, sir,” cried the old Colonel.

“Place me under arrest then, and let me appear in due time.”

“I claim Major Rockley as my prisoner, sir,” cried the constable stoutly. “I have a warrant in proper form, and my men waiting. This is not an ordinary case.”

“Oh, very well,” cried Rockley contemptuously; “I am ready. The charge is as ridiculous as it is disgraceful. I presume that I may return to my quarters, and tell my servant to pack up a few necessaries?”

“Of course; of course, Rockley,” said the Colonel. “There can be no objection to this.”

He looked at the constable as he spoke, but that individual made no reply. He placed himself by Rockley’s side, and Sir Harry Payne went out with them.

“I don’t believe it, Rockley,” cried the latter. “Here, I’ll stand by you to the end.”

Rockley gave him a grim nod, glanced sharply round, and then strode out to his own quarters only a few yards away.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Colonel, looking from one to the other; “this is a most painful business for me. Mr Denville, as your father’s son, I cannot blame you very much, but if you had been ten years older you would have acted differently.”

“Colonel Lascelles,” said Lord Carboro’ coldly, “I do not see how Mr Morton Denville could have acted differently.”

“I will not argue the point with you, my lord,” said the Colonel. “May I ask you to – My God! What’s that?”

It was a dull report, followed by the hurrying of feet, and the excitement that would ensue in a barrack at the discharge of fire-arms.

Before the Colonel could reach the door, it was thrown open, and Sir Harry Payne staggered in, white as ashes, and sank into a chair.

“Water!” he exclaimed. “I’m weak yet.”

“What is it? Are you hurt?” cried the Colonel.

“No. Good heavens! how horrible,” faltered the young man with a sob. “Rockley!”

“Rockley?” cried Morton excitedly.

“He has blown out his brains!”

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Seven.

A Long Adieu

Major Rockley’s tacit acknowledgment of the truth of the charge against him, and the piecing together of the links, showed how, on the night of Lady Teigne’s death, he had been absent from the mess for two hours, during which Fred Denville lay drunk in the officers’ quarters – made drunk by the Major’s contrivance, so that his uniform could be used. How too, so as further to avert suspicion, the Major had the fiendish audacity to take the party to perform the serenade where the poor old votary of fashion lay dead.