Kitabı oku: «The Master of the Ceremonies»

Volume One – Chapter One.
His House

Early morning at Saltinville, with the tide down, and the calm sea shimmering like damasked and deadened silver in the sunshine. Here and there a lugger was ashore, delivering its take of iris-hued mackerel to cart and basket, as a busy throng stood round, some upon the sands, some knee-deep in water, and all eager to obtain a portion of the fresh fish that fetched so good a price amongst the visitors to the town.

The trawler was coming in, too, with its freight of fine thick soles and turbot, with a few gaily-scaled red mullet; and perhaps a staring-eyed John Dory or two, from the trammel net set overnight amongst the rocks: all choice fish, these, to be bought up ready for royal and noble use, for London would see no scale of any of the fish caught that night.

The unclouded sun flashed from the windows of the houses on the cliff, giving them vivid colours that the decorator had spared, and lighting up the downs beyond, so that from the sea Saltinville looked a very picture of all that was peaceful and bright. There were no huge stucco palaces to mar the landscape, for all was modest as to architecture, and as fresh as green and stone-coloured paint applied to window-frame, veranda and shutter could make it. Flowers of variety were not plentiful, but great clusters of orange marigolds flourished bravely, and, with broad-disked sunflowers, did no little towards giving warmth of colour to the place. There had been no storms of late – no windy nights when the spray was torn from the tops of waves to fly in showers over the houses, and beat the window-panes, crusting them afterwards with a coat of dingy salt. The windows, then, were flashing in the sun; but all the same, by six o’clock, Isaac Monkley, the valet, body-servant, and footman-in-ordinary to Stuart Denville, Esquire, MC, was busy, dressed in a striped jacket, and standing on the very top of a pair of steps, cloth in one hand and wash-leather in the other, carefully cleaning windows that were already spotless. For there was something in the exterior of the MC’s house that suggested its tenant. Paint, glass, walls, and doorstep were so scrupulously clean that they recalled the master’s face, and seemed to have been clean-shaven but an hour before.

Isaac was not alone in his task, for, neat in a print dress and snowy cap, Eliza, the housemaid, was standing on a chair within; and as they cleaned the windows in concert, they courted in a special way.

There is no accounting for the pleasure people find in very ordinary ways. Isaac and Eliza found theirs in making the glass so clear that they could smile softly at each other without let or hindrance produced by smear or speck in any single pane. Their hands, too, were kept in contact, saving for cloth and glass, and moved in unison, describing circles and a variety of other figures, going into the corners together, changing from cloth to wash-leather, and moving, as it were, by one set of muscles till the task was concluded with a chaste salute – a kiss through the glass.

Meanwhile, anyone curious about the house would, if he had raised his eyes, have seen that one of the upstairs windows had a perfect screen of flowers, that grew from a broad, green box along the sill. Sweet peas clustered, roses bloomed, geraniums dotted it with brilliant tiny pointless stars of scarlet, and at one side there was a string that ran up from a peg to a nail, hammered, unknown to the MC, into the wall. That peg was an old tooth-brush handle, and the nail had been driven in with the back of a hairbrush; but bone handle and string were invisible now, covered by the twining strands of so many ipomaeas, whose heart-shaped leaves and trumpet blossoms formed one of the most lovely objects of the scene. Here they were of richest purple, fading into lavender and grey; there of delicate pink with well-formed starry markings in the inner bell, and moist with the soft air of early morning. Each blossom was a thing of beauty soon to fade, for, as the warm beams of the sun kissed them, the edges began to curl; then there would be a fit of shrivelling, and the bloom of the virgin flower passed under the sun-god’s too ardent caress.

About and above this screen of flowers, a something ivory white, and tinged with peachy pink, kept darting in and out. Now it touched a rose, and a shower of petals fell softly down; now a geranium leaf that was turning yellow disappeared; now again a twig that had borne roses was taken away, after a sound that resembled a steely click. Then the little crimson and purple blossoms of a fuchsia were touched, and shivered and twinkled in the light at the soft movements among the graceful stems as dying flowers were swept away.

For a minute again all was still, but the next, there was a fresh vibration amongst the flowers as this ivory whiteness appeared in a new place, curving round a plant as if in loving embrace; and at such times the blooms seemed drawn towards another and larger flower of thicker petal and of coral hue, that peeped out amongst the fresh green leaves, and then it was that a watcher would have seen that this ivory something playing about the window garden was a soft white hand.

Again a fresh vibration amongst the clustering flowers, as if they were trembling with delight at the touches that were once more to come. Then there was a brilliant flash as the sun’s rays glanced from a bright vessel, the pleasant gurgle of water from a glass carafe, and once more stillness before the stems were slowly parted, and a larger flower peeped out from the leafy screen – the soft, sweet face of Claire Denville – to gaze at the sea and sky, and inhale the morning air.

Richard Linnell was not there to look up and watch the changes in the sweet, candid face, with its high white forehead, veined with blue, its soft, peachy cheeks and clear, dark-grey eyes, full of candour, but searching and firm beneath the well-marked brows. Was her mouth too large? Perhaps so; but what a curve to that upper lip, what a bend to the lower over that retreating dimpled chin. If it had been smaller the beauty of the regular teeth would have been more hidden, and there would have been less of the pleasant smile that came as Claire brushed aside her wavy brown hair, turned simply back, and knotted low down upon her neck.

Pages might be written in Claire Denville’s praise: let it suffice that she was a tall, graceful woman, and that even the most disparaging scandalmonger of the place owned that she was “not amiss.”

Claire Denville’s gaze out to sea was but a short one. Then her face disappeared; the stems and blossoms darted back to form a screen, and the tenant of the barely-furnished bedroom was busy for some time, making the bed and placing all in order before drawing a tambour frame to the window, and unpinning a piece of paper that guarded the gay silks and wools. Then for the next hour Claire bent over her work, the glistening needle passing rapidly in and out as she gazed intently at the pattern rapidly approaching completion, a piece of work that was to be taken surreptitiously to Miss Clode’s library and fancy bazaar for sale, money being a scarce commodity in the MC’s home.

From below, time after time, came up sounds of preparation for the breakfast of the domestics, then for their own, and Claire sighed as she thought of the expenses incurred for three servants, and how much happier they might be if they lived in simpler style.

The chiming of the old church clock sounded sweetly on the morning air.

Ting-dong– quarter-past; and Claire listened attentively.

Ting-dong– half-past.

Ting-dong– quarter to eight.

“How time goes!” she cried, with a wistful look at her work, which she hurriedly covered, and then her print dress rustled as she ran downstairs to find her father already in the little pinched parlour, dubbed breakfast-room, standing thin and pensive in a long faded dressing-gown, one arm resting upon the chimney-piece, snuff-box in hand, the other raised level with his face, holding the freshly-dipped-for pinch – in fact, standing in a studied attitude, as if for his portrait to be limned.

Volume One – Chapter Two.
His Breakfast

“Ah, my child, you are late,” said the Master of the Ceremonies, as Claire ran to meet him and kissed his cheek. “‘Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.’ It will do the same for you, my child, and add bloom to your cheek, though, of course, we cannot be early in the season.”

“I am a little late, papa dear,” said Claire, ringing a tinkling bell, with the result that Isaac, in his striped jacket and the stiffest of white cravats, entered, closed the door behind him, and then stood statuesque, holding a brightly-polished kettle, emitting plenty of steam.

“Any letters, Isaac?”

“No, sir, none this morning,” and then Isaac carefully poured a small quantity of the boiling water into the teapot, whose lid Claire had raised, and stood motionless while she poured it out again, and then unlocked a very small tea-caddy and spooned out three very small spoonfuls – one apiece, and none for the over-cleaned and de-silvered plated pot. This done, Isaac filled up, placed the kettle on the hob, fetched a Bible and prayer-book from a sideboard, placed them at one end of the table and went out.

“Why is not Morton down?” said the MC sternly.

“He came down quite an hour ago, papa. He must have gone for a walk. Shall we wait?”

“Certainly not, my child.”

At that moment there was a little scuffling outside the door, which was opened directly after by Isaac, who admitted Eliza and a very angular-looking woman with two pins tightly held between her lips – pins that she had intended to transfer to some portion of her garments, but had not had time. These three placed themselves before three chairs by the door, and waited till the MC had gracefully replaced his snuff-box, and taken two steps to the table, where he and Claire sat down. Then the servants took their seats, and then “Master” opened the Bible to read in a slow, deliberate way, and as if he enjoyed the names, that New Testament chapter on genealogies which to youthful ears seemed to be made up of a constant repetition of the two words, “which was.”

This ended, all rose and knelt down, Isaac with the point of his elbow just touching the point of Eliza’s elbow, for he comforted his conscience over this tender advance by the reflection that marriage, though distant, was a sacred thing; and he made up for his unspiritual behaviour to a great extent by saying the “Amens” in a much louder voice than Cook, and finished off in the short space of silence after the Master of the Ceremonies had read the last Collect, and when all were expected to continue their genuflexions till that personage sighed and made a movement as if to rise, by adding a short extempore prayer of his own, one which he had repeated religiously for the past four years without effect, the supplication being:

“And finally, may we all get the arrears of our wages, evermore. Amen.”

Isaac had finished his supplementary prayer; the MC sighed and rose, and, the door being opened by the footman, the two maids stepped out. Isaac followed, and in a few minutes returned with a very coppery rack, containing four thin pieces of toast, and a little dish whose contents were hidden by a very battered cover. These were placed with the greatest form upon the table, and the cover removed with a flourish, to reveal two very thin and very curly pieces of streaky bacon, each of which had evidently been trying to inflate itself like the frog in the fable, but with no other result than the production of a fatty bladdery puff, supported by a couple of patches of brown.

Isaac handed the toast to father and daughter, and then went off with the cover silently as a spirit, and the breakfast was commenced by the MC softly breaking a piece of toast with his delicate fingers and saying:

“I am displeased with Morton. After yesterday’s incident, he should have been here to discuss with me the future of his campaign.”

“Here he is, papa,” cried Claire eagerly, and she rose to kiss her brother affectionately as he came rather boisterously into the room, looking tall, thin and pale, but healthy and hungry, as an overgrown boy of nineteen would look who had been out at the seaside before breakfast.

“You were not here to prayers, Morton,” said the MC sternly.

“No, father; didn’t know it was so late,” said the lad, beginning on the toast as soon as he was seated.

“I trust that you have not been catching – er – er – dabs, this morning.” The word was distasteful when the fish was uncooked, and required an effort to enunciate.

“Oh, but I have, though. Rare sport this morning. Got enough for dinner.”

The MC was silent for a few moments, and gracefully sipped his thin tea. He was displeased, but there was a redeeming feature in his son’s announcement – enough fish for dinner. There would be no need to order anything of the butcher.

“Hush, Morton,” said Claire softly, and she laid her soft little hand on his, seeing their father about to speak.

“I am – er – sorry that you should be so thoughtless, Morton,” said his father; “at a time, too, when I am making unheard-of efforts to obtain that cornetcy for you; how can you degrade yourself – you, the son of a – er – man – a – er – gentleman in my position, by going like a common boy down below that pier to catch – er – dabs!”

“Well, we want them,” retorted the lad. “A good dinner of dabs isn’t to be sneezed at. I’m as hungry as hungry, sometimes. See how thin I am. Why, the boys laugh, and call me Lanky Denville.”

“What is the opinion of boys to a young man with your prospects in life?” said his father, carefully ignoring the question of food supply. “Besides, you ought to be particular, sir, for the sake of your sister May, who has married so well.”

“What, to jerry-sneaky Frank Burnett? A little humbug.”

“Morton!”

“Well, so he is, father. I asked him to lend me five shillings the day before yesterday, and he called me an importunate beggar.”

“You had no business to ask him for money, sir.”

“Who am I to ask, then? I must have money. You won’t let me go out to work.”

“No, sir; you are a gentleman’s son, and must act as a gentleman.”

“I can’t act as a gentleman without money,” cried the lad, eating away, for, to hide the look of pain in her face, Claire kept diligently attending to her brother’s wants by supplying him with a fair amount of thin tea and bread and butter, as well as her own share of the bacon.

“My dear son,” said the MC with dignity, “everything comes to the man who will wait. Your sister May has made a wealthy marriage. Claire will, I have no doubt, do the same, and I have great hopes of your prospects.”

“Haven’t any prospects,” said the lad, in an ill-used tone.

“Not from me,” said the MC, “for I am compelled to keep up appearances before the world, and my fees and offerings are not nearly so much as people imagine.”

“Then why don’t we live accordingly?” said the lad roughly.

“Allow me, with my experience, sir, to know best; and I desire that you will not take that tone towards me. Recollect, sir, that I am your father.”

“Indeed, dear papa, Morton does not mean to be disrespectful.”

“Silence, Claire. And you, Morton; I will be obeyed.”

“All right, father. I’ll obey fast enough, but it does seem precious hard to see Ikey down in the kitchen stuffing himself, and us up in the parlour going short so as to keep up appearances.”

“My boy,” said the MC pathetically, “it is Spartan-like. It is self-denying and manly. Have courage, and all will end well. I know it is hard. It is my misfortune, but I appeal to you both, do I ever indulge myself at your expense? Do I ever spare myself in my efforts for you?”

“No, no, no, dear,” cried Claire, rising with tears in her eyes to throw her arm round his neck and kiss him.

“Good girl! – good girl!” he said, smiling sadly, and returning the embrace. “But sit down, sit down now, and let us discuss these very weighty matters. Fortune is beginning to smile upon us, my dears. May is off my hands – well married.”

Claire shook her head sadly.

“I say well married, Claire,” said her father sternly, “and though we have still that trouble ever facing us, of a member of our family debauched by drunkenness, and sunk down to the degradation of a common soldier – ”

“Oh! I say, father, leave poor old Fred alone,” cried Morton. “He isn’t a bad fellow; only unlucky.”

“Be silent, sir, and do not mention his name again in my presence. And Claire, once for all, I forbid his coming to this house.”

“He only came to the back door,” grumbled Morton.

“A son who is so degraded that he cannot come to the front door, and must lower himself to the position of one of our servants, is no companion for my children. I forbid all further communication with him.”

“Oh, papa!” cried Claire, with the tears in her eyes.

“Silence! Morton, my son, I have hopes that by means of my interest a certain person will give you a commission in the Light Dragoons, and – For what we have received may the Lord make us truly thankful.”

“Amen,” said Morton. “Claire, I want some more bread and butter.”

“Claire,” said the Master of the Ceremonies, rising from the table as a faint tinkle was heard, “there is the Countess’s bell.”

He drew the girl aside and laid a thin white finger upon her shoulder.

“You must give her a broader hint this morning, Claire. Six months, and she has paid nothing whatever. I cannot, I really cannot go on finding her ladyship in apartments and board like this. It is so unreasonable. A woman, too, with her wealth. Pray, speak to her again, but don’t offend her. You must be careful. Delicately, my child – delicately. A leader of fashion even now. A woman of exquisite refinement. Of the highest aristocracy. Speak delicately. It would never do to cause her annoyance about such a sordid thing as money – a few unsettled debts of honour. Ah, her bell again. Don’t keep her waiting.”

“If you please, ma’am, her ladyship has rung twice,” said Isaac, entering the room; “and Eliza says shall she go?”

“No, Isaac, your mistress will visit her ladyship,” said the MC with dignity. “You can clear away, Isaac – you can clear away.”

Stuart Denville, Esquire, walked to the window and took a pinch of snuff. As soon as his back was turned Isaac grinned and winked at Morton, making believe to capture and carry off the bread and butter; while the lad hastily wrote on a piece of paper:

“Pour me out a cup of tea in the pantry, Ike, and I’ll come down.”

Five minutes later the room was cleared, and the MC turned from the window to catch angrily from the table some half-dozen letters which the footman had placed ready for him to see.

“Bills, bills, bills,” he said, in a low, angry voice, thrusting them unread into the drawer of a cabinet; “what am I to do? How am I to pay?”

He sat down gracefully, as if it were part of his daily life, and his brow wrinkled, and an old look came into his face as he thought of the six months’ arrears of the lady who occupied his first floor, and his hands began to tremble strangely as he seemed to see open before him an old-fashioned casket, in which lay, glittering upon faded velvet, necklet, tiara, brooch, earrings and bracelets – large diamonds of price; a few of which, if sold, would be sufficient to pay his debts, and enable him to keep up appearances, and struggle on, till Claire was well married, and his son well placed.

Money – money – always struggling on for money in this life of beggarly gentility; while only on the next floor that old woman on the very brink of the grave had trinkets, any one of which —

He made a hasty gesture, as if he were thrusting back some temptation, and took up a newspaper, but let it fall upon his knees as his eyes lit upon a list of bankrupts.

Was it come to that? He was heavily in debt to many of the tradespeople. The epidemic in the place last year had kept so many people away, and his fees had been less than ever. Things still looked bad. Then there was the rent, and Barclay had said he would not wait, and there were the bills that Barclay held – his acceptances for money borrowed at a heavy rate to keep up appearances when his daughter May – his idol – the pretty little sunbeam of his house – became Mrs Frank Burnett.

“Barclay is hard, very hard,” said the Master of the Ceremonies to himself. “Barclay said – ”

He again made that gesture, a gracefully made gesture of repelling something with his thin, white hands, but the thought came back.

“Barclay said that half the ladies of fashion when short of money, through play, took their diamonds to their jeweller, sold some of the best, and had them replaced with paste. It took a connoisseur to tell the difference by candlelight.”

Stuart Denville, poverty-stricken gentleman, the poorest of men, suffering as he did the misery of one struggling to keep up appearances, rose to his feet with a red spot in each of his cheeks, and a curious look in his eyes.

“No, no,” he ejaculated excitedly as he walked up and down, “a gentleman, sir – a gentleman, if poor. Better one’s razors or a pistol. They would say it was all that I could do. Not the first gentleman who has gone to his grave like that.”

He shuddered and stood gazing out of the window at the sea, which glittered in the sunshine like – yes, like diamonds.

Barclay said he had often changed diamonds for paste, and no one but a judge could tell what had been done. Half a dozen of the stones from a bracelet replaced with paste, and he would be able to hold up his head for a year, and by that time how changed everything might be.

Curse the diamonds! Was he mad? Why did the sea dance and sparkle, and keep on flashing like brilliants? Was it the work of some devil to tempt him with such thoughts? Or was he going mad?

He took pinch after pinch of snuff, and walked up and down with studied dancing-master strides as if he were being observed, instead of alone in that shabby room, and as he walked he could hear the dull buzz of voices and a light tread overhead.

He walked to the window again with a shudder, and the sea still seemed to be all diamonds.

He could not bear it, but turned to his seat, into which he sank heavily, and covered his face with his hands.

Diamonds again – glistening diamonds, half a dozen of which, taken – why not borrowed for a time from the old woman who owed him so much, and would not pay? Just borrowed for the time, and paste substituted till fate smiled upon him, and his plans were carried out. How easy it would be. And she, old, helpless, would never know the difference – and it was to benefit his children.

“I cannot bear it,” he moaned; and then, “Barclay would do it for me. He is secret as the tomb. He never speaks. If he did, what reputations he could blast.”

So easy; the old woman took her opiate every night, and slept till morning. She would not miss the cross – yes, that would be the one – no, a bracelet better. She never wore that broad bracelet, Claire said, now she had realised that her arms were nothing but bone.

“Am I mad?” cried the old man, starting up again. “Yes, what is it?”

“Messenger from Mr Barclay, sir, to say he will call to-morrow at twelve, and he hopes you will be in.”

“Yes, yes, Isaac; say yes, I will be in,” said the wretched man, sinking back in his chair with the perspiration starting out all over his brow. And then, as he was left alone, “How am I to meet him? What am I to say?” he whispered. “Oh, it is too horrible to bear!”

Once more he started to his feet and walked to the window and looked out upon the sea.

Diamonds – glittering diamonds as far as eye could reach, and the Master of the Ceremonies, realising more and more the meaning of the word temptation, staggered away from the window with a groan.

Volume One – Chapter Three.
The Flickering Flame

“Draw the curtains, my dear, and then go into the next room, and throw open the French window quite wide.”

It was a mumbling noise that seemed to come out of a cap-border lying on a pillow, for there was no face visible; but a long thin elevation of the bedclothes, showing that some one was lying there, could be seen in the dim light.

Claire drew the curtains, opened a pair of folding-doors, and crossed the front room to open the French window and admit the sweet fresh air.

She stepped out into the balcony supported by wooden posts, up which a creeper was trained, and stood by a few shrubs in pots gazing out at the brilliant sea; but only for a few moments, before turning, recrossing the skimpily furnished drawing-room, and going into the back, where the large four-post bedstead suddenly began to quiver, and the bullion fringe all round to dance, as its occupant burst into a spasmodic fit of coughing.

“He – he – he, hi – hi – hi, hec – hec – hec, ha – ha – ha! ho – ho! Bless my – hey – ha! hey – ha! hugh – hugh – hugh! Oh dear me! oh – why don’t you – heck – heck – heck – heck – heck! Shut the – ho – ho – ho – ho – hugh – hugh – window before I – ho – ho – ho – ho!”

Claire flew back across the drawing-room and shut the window, hurrying again to the bedside, where, as she drew aside the curtains, the morning light displayed a ghastly-looking, yellow-faced old woman, whose head nodded and bowed in a palsied manner, as she sat up, supporting herself with one arm, and wiped her eyes – the hand that held the handkerchief being claw-like and bony, and covered with a network of prominent veins.

She was a repulsive-looking, blear-eyed old creature, with a high-bridged aquiline nose that seemed to go with the claw-like hand. A few strands of white hair had escaped from beneath the great mob of lace that frilled her nightcap, and hung over forehead and cheek, which were lined and wrinkled like a walnut shell, only ten times as deeply.

“It’s – it’s your nasty damp house,” mumbled the old woman spitefully, her lips seeming to be drawn tightly over her gums, and her nose threatening to tap her chin as she spoke. “It’s – it’s killing me. I never had such a cough before. Damn Saltinville! I hate it.”

“Oh, Lady Teigne, how can you talk like that!” cried Claire. “It is so shocking.”

“What! to say damn? ’Tisn’t. I’ll say it again. A hundred times if I like;” and she rattled out the condemnatory word a score of times over, as fast as she could utter it, while Claire looked on in a troubled way at the hideous old wretch before her.

“Well, what are you staring at, pink face! Wax-doll! Baby chit! Don’t look at me in that proud way, as if you were rejoicing because you are young, and I am a little old. You’ll be like me some day. If you live – he – he – he! If you live. But you won’t. You look consumptive. Eh?”

“I did not speak,” said Claire sadly. “Shall I bring your breakfast, Lady Teigne?”

“Yes, of course. Are you going to starve me? Mind the beef-tea’s strong this morning, and put a little more cognac in, child. Don’t you get starving me. Tell your father, child, that I shall give him a cheque some day. I haven’t forgotten his account, but he is not to pester me with reminders. I shall pay him when I please.”

“My father would be greatly obliged, Lady Teigne, if you would let him have some money at once. I know he is pressed.”

“How dare you! How dare you! Pert chit! Look here, girl,” cried the old woman, shaking horribly with rage; “if another word is said to me about money, I’ll go and take apartments somewhere else.”

“Lady Teigne! You are ill,” cried Claire, as the old woman sank back on her pillow, looking horribly purple. “Let me send for a doctor.”

“What!” cried the old woman, springing up – “a doctor? Don’t you mention a doctor again in my presence, miss. Do you think I’d trust myself to one of the villains? He’d kill me in a week. Go and get my beef-tea. I’m quite well.”

Claire went softly out of the room, and the old woman sat up coughing and muttering.

“Worrying me for money, indeed – a dipperty-dapperty dancing-master! I won’t pay him a penny.”

Here there was a fit of coughing that made the fringe dance till the old woman recovered, wiped her eyes, and shook her skinny hand at the fringe for quivering.

“Doctor? Yes, they’d better. What do I want with a doctor? Let them get one for old Lyddy – wants one worse than I do, ever so much. Oh, there you are, miss. Is that beef-tea strong?”

“Yes, Lady Teigne, very strong.”

Claire placed a tray, covered with a white napkin, before her, and took the cover from the white china soup-basin, beside which was a plate of toast cut up into dice.

The old woman sniffed at a spoonful.

“How much cognac did you put in?”

“A full wine-glass, Lady Teigne.”

“Then it’s poor brandy.”

“No, Lady Teigne; it is the best French.”

“Chut! Don’t talk to me, child. I know what brandy is.”

She threw some of the sippets in, and began tasting the broth in an unpleasant way, mumbling between the spoonfuls.

“I knew what brandy was before you were born, and shall go on drinking it after you are dead, I dare say. There, I shan’t have any more. Give it to that hungry boy of yours. He looks as if he wanted it.”

Claire could not forbear a smile, for the old woman had not left half a dozen spoonfuls at the bottom of the basin.

“Look here. Come up at two o’clock and dress me. I shall have a good many visitors to-day, and mind this: don’t you ever hint at sending up Eliza again, or I’ll go and take apartments somewhere else. We’re getting proud, I suppose?”

There was a jingle of the china on the tray as the old woman threw herself down, and then a mumbling, followed by a fit of coughing, which soon subsided, and lastly there was nothing visible but the great cap-border, and a few straggling white hairs.

At two o’clock to the moment Claire went upstairs again, and for the space of an hour she performed the duties of lady’s-maid without a murmur, building up the old relic of a bygone fashionable generation into a presentable form. There was an auburn set of curls upon her head, with a huge tortoise-shell comb behind. A change had been wrought in her mouth, which was filled with white teeth. A thick coating of powder filled up some of her wrinkles, and a wonderful arrangement of rich lace draped her form as she sat propped up in an easy-chair.

“Now my diamonds,” she said, at last; and Claire fetched a casket from the dressing-table, and held a mirror before the old lady, as she wearied herself – poor old flickering flame that she was! – fitting rings on her thin fingers, the glittering necklet about her baggy throat, the diadem in her hair, and the eardrops in the two yellow pendulous adjuncts to her head.

“Shall I do, chit?” she said, at last.

“Yes,” said Claire gravely.

“Humph! You don’t look pleased; you never do. You’re jealous, chit. There, half draw down the blinds and go, now. Leave the room tidy. I hate to have you by me at times like this.”

Claire helped her to walk to the drawing-room, arranged a few things, and then left the room with the folding-doors closed, and it seemed as if life and youth had gone out of the place, leaving it to ghastly old age and death, painted with red lips and white cheeks, and looking ten times more awful than death in its natural solemn state.

Then for two hours fashionable Saltinville rattled the knocker, and was shown up by Isaac, in ones, and twos, and threes, and told Lady Teigne that she never looked better, and took snuff, and gossiped, and told of the latest scandals about Miss A, and Mr B, and Lord C, and then stopped, for Lord C came and told tales back; and all the while Lady Teigne, supported by Lady Drelincourt, her sister, ogled and smiled, and smirked under her paint and diamonds, and quarrelled with her sister every time they were left for a few minutes alone.

“It’s shameful, Lyddy,” said her ladyship, pinching her over-dressed sister; “an old thing like you, rolling in riches, and you won’t pay my debts.”

“Pay them yourself,” was the ungracious reply. “Oh!”

This was consequent upon the receipt of a severe pinch from Lady Teigne, but the elderly sisters smiled again directly, for Isaac announced Major Rockley, and the handsome, dark officer came in, banging an imaginary sabre at his heels and clinking his spurs. He kissed Lady Teigne’s hand, bent courteously over Lady Drelincourt, and then set both tittering over the latest story about the Prince.

The sisters might have been young from their ways and looks, and general behaviour towards the Major, whose attentions towards the venerable animated mummy upon the couch seemed marked by a manner that was almost filial.

He patted the cushions that supported the weak back; held her ladyship when a fit of coughing came on, and then had to find the necklet that had become unfastened and had slipped down beneath an Indian shawl, spread coverlet fashion, over the lady’s trembling limbs.

“Thank you so much, Major. How clever you are!” cackled the old woman playfully, as he found the necklet, and clasped it about her throat. “I almost feel disposed to give you some encouragement, only it would make Lyddy furious.”

Lady Drelincourt said “For shame!” and tapped her sister with her fan, and then Major Rockley had to give place to Captain Bray and Lieutenant Sir Harry Payne, officers in his regiment, the former a handsome, portly dandy who puzzled his dearest friends, he was so poor but looked so well.

Then followed other members of the fashionable world of Saltinville, till nearly six, when the knocker ceased making the passage echo, the last visitor had called, and Claire helped – half carried – her ladyship back to bed, and watched her relock her jewels in the casket, which was taken then to the dressing-table. Her ladyship was made comfortable, partook of her dinner and tea, and then waited for the coming of Claire for the last time that night.

Volume One – Chapter Four.
Clouds

Lady Teigne’s drawing-room was in full progress, and Claire was working hard at her tambour frame, earning money respectably, and listening to the coming and going of the visitors, when there was a tap at her bedroom door, and the maid Eliza entered.

“If you please, miss,” said Eliza, and stopped.

“Yes, Eliza,” and the soft white hand remained suspended over the canvas, with the needle glittering between the taper fingers.

“If you please, miss, there’s that young man at the kitchen door.”

“That young man?”

“The soldier, miss; and he do look nice: Mr James Bell.”

There was a flush in Eliza’s face. It might have been that which fled from Claire’s, leaving it like ivory.

“Where is your master?”

“He went out on the parade, miss.”

“And Mr Morton?”

“Hush, miss! he said I wasn’t to tell. He bought two herrings of Fisherman Dick at the back door, and I believe he’ve gone to the end of the pier, fishing.”

“I’ll come down, Eliza.”

Eliza tripped off to hurry down to the handsome young dragoon waiting in the kitchen, and wonder whether he was Miss Claire’s sweetheart, and wish he were hers, for he did look so lovely in his uniform and spurs.

As soon as Claire was alone she threw herself upon her knees beside her bed, to rise up at the end of a minute, the tears in her eyes, and a troubled look covering her handsome face with gloom.

Then she hurried down, barely escaping Major Rockley, who did contrive to raise his hat and direct a smile at her before she was gone – darting in at the empty breakfast-room door, and waiting there trembling till the Major had passed the window and looked up in vain to see if she were there.

“What a coincidence,” she thought, as her heart beat painfully, and a smarting blush came in her cheeks.

But the Major was gone; there was no fear of encountering him now; and she hurried into the kitchen, where a handsome, bluff-looking, fair young man of goodly proportions, who sat stiffly upright in his dragoon undress uniform, was talking to Eliza, who moved from the table against which she had been leaning, and left the kitchen.

“Oh, Fred dear,” cried Claire, as the blond young soldier rose from his chair, took her in his arms, and kissed her tenderly.

“Why, Claire, my pet, how are you?” he cried; and Eliza, who had peeped through the key-hole, gave her foot a spiteful stamp.

“So miserable, Fred dear. But you must not come here.”

“Oh, I won’t come to the front, and disgrace you all; but hang it, you might let me come to the back. Getting too proud, I suppose.”

“Fred! don’t talk so, dear. You hurt me.”

“Well, I won’t, pet. Bless you for a dear, sweet girl. But it does seem hard.”

“Then why not try and leave the service, Fred? I’ll save all I can to try and buy you out, but you must help me.”

“Bah! Stuff, little one! What’s the good? Suppose I get my discharge. That’s the good? What can I do? I shall only take to the drink again. I’m not fit for anything but a common soldier. No; I must stop as I am. The poor old governor meant well, Clairy, but it was beggarly work – flunkey work, and it disgusted me.”

“Oh, Fred!”

“Well, it did, little one. I was sick of the fashionable starvation, and I suppose I was too fond of the drink, and so I enlisted.”

“But you don’t drink much now, Fred.”

“Don’t get the chance, little one,” he said, with a bluff laugh. “There, I’ll keep away. I won’t disgrace you all.”

“Dear Fred,” said Claire, crying softly.

“And I won’t talk bitterly to you, my pet. I say, didn’t I see the Major come in at the front?”

“Yes, dear. He went up to see Lady Teigne. She is at home this afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s right. Didn’t come to see you. Master comes in at the front to see the countess; Private James Bell comes in at the back to see you, eh?”

“Fred, dear, you hurt me when you talk like this.”

“Then I’ll be serious. Rum thing I should drift into being the Major’s servant, isn’t it? Makes me know him, though. I say, Clairy, you’re a beautiful girl, and there’s no knowing who may come courting.”

“Hush, Fred!”

“Not I. Let me speak. Look here: our Major’s one of the handsomest men in the town, Prince’s favourite, and all that sort of thing; but if ever he speaks to you, be on your guard, for he’s as big a scoundrel as ever breathed, and over head in debt.”

“Don’t be afraid, Fred,” said the girl, smiling.

“I’m not, pet. So the old girl’s at home, is she?”

“Yes.”

“Sitting in her diamonds and lace, eh?”

Claire nodded.

“Wish I had some of them instead of that old cat – hang her! – for I’m awfully short of money. I say, dear, can you let me have a few shillings?”

Claire’s white forehead wrinkled, and she looked at the young soldier in a troubled way, as she drew a little bead purse from her pocket, opened it, and poured five shillings into the broad hand.

“Thank ye,” he said coolly, as his eyes rested on the purse. Then, starting up – “Hang it, no,” he cried; “I can’t. Here, catch hold. Good – bye; God bless you!”

He thrust the money back into her hand, caught her in his arms and kissed her, and before she could detain him he was gone.

That afternoon and evening passed gloomily for Claire. Her father, when he returned from his walk, was restless and strange, and was constantly walking up and down the room.

To make matters worse, her visitor of that afternoon went by two or three times on the other side of the road, gazing very attentively up at the house, and she was afraid that their father might see him.

Then Major Rockley went by, smoking a cigar, raised his hat to her as he saw her at the window, and at the same moment as she returned his salute she saw Private James Bell on the other side, looking at her with a frown full of reproach.

Bedtime came at last, after a serious encounter between the Master of the Ceremonies and his son Morton for staying out till ten. Claire had to go to Lady Teigne again to give her the sleeping-draught she always took, eighty years not having made her so weary that she could sleep; and then there was the wine-glass to half fill with water, and quite fill with salad oil, so that a floating wick might burn till morning.

“Good-night, Lady Teigne,” said Claire softly.

There was no answer; and the young girl bent over the wreck of the fashionable beauty, thinking how like she looked to death.

Midnight, and the tide going out, while the waves broke restlessly upon the shingle, which they bathed with pallid golden foam. The sea was black as ink, with diamonds sparkling in it here and there reflected from the encrusted sky; and there was the glitter and sparkle of jewels in Lady Teigne’s bedchamber, as two white hands softly lifted them from the wrenched-open casket.

That floating wick in the glass of oil looked like the condensation of some of the phosphorescence of the sea, and in its light the jewels glittered; but it cast as well a boldly-thrown aquiline shadow on the chamber wall. Ching!

The jewels fell back into the casket as a gasp came from the bed, and the man saw the light of recognition in the eyes that glared in his as the old woman sat up, holding herself there with her supporting hands.

“Ah!” she cried. “You?”

The word “Help!” – a harsh, wild cry – was half formed, but only half, for in an instant she was dashed back, and the great down pillow pressed over her face.

The tide was going out fast.

Volume One – Chapter Five.
A Night to be Remembered

There was a flush on Claire Denville’s cheek as she turned restlessly upon her pillow. Her dreams were of pain and trouble, and from time to time a sigh escaped her lips.

The rushlight which burned in a socket set in the middle of a tin cup of water, surrounded by a japanned cylinder full of holes, sent curious shadows and feeble rays about the plainly furnished room, giving everything a weird and ghostly look as the thin rush candle burned slowly down.

All at once she started up, listened, and remained there, hardly breathing. Then, as if not satisfied, she rose, hurriedly dressed herself, and, lighting a candle, went down to Lady Teigne’s room.

The position had been unsought, but had been forced upon her by the exacting old woman, and by degrees Claire had found herself personal attendant, and liable to be called up at any moment during one of the many little attacks that the great sapper and miner made upon the weak fortress, tottering to its fall.

Was it fancy, or had she heard Lady Teigne call?

It seemed to Claire, as she descended, that she had been lying in an oppressive dream, listening to call after call, but unable to move and master the unseen force that held her down.

She paused as she reached the landing, with the drawing-room door on her right, Lady Teigne’s bedroom before her, and, down a short passage on her left, her father’s room. Isaac slept in his pantry, by the empty plate-chest and the wineless cellar. Morton’s room was next her own, on the upper floor, and the maids slept at the back.

The only sound to be heard was the faint wash of the waves as they curled over upon the shingle where the tide was going out.

“It must have been fancy,” said Claire, after listening intently; and she stood there with the light throwing up the eager look upon her face, with her lips half parted, and a tremulous motion about her well-cut nostrils as her bosom rose and fell.

Then, drawing a breath full of relief, she turned to go, the horror that had assailed her dying off; for ever since Lady Teigne had been beneath their roof, Claire had been haunted by the idea that some night she would be called up at a time when the visit her ladyship insisted in every act was so far off had been paid.

Feeling for the moment, then, satisfied that she had been deceived, Claire ascended three or four stairs, her sweet face growing composed, and the soft, rather saddened smile that generally sat upon her lips gradually returning, when, as if moved by a fresh impulse, she descended again, listened, and then softly turned the handle of the door, and entered.

She did not close the door behind her, only letting it swing to, and then, raising the candle above her head, glanced round.

There was nothing to take her attention.

The curtain of the bed was drawn along by the head, and in an untidy way, leaving the end of the bolster exposed. But that only indicated that the fidgety, querulous old woman had fancied she could feel a draught from the folding-doors that led into the drawing-room, and she had often drawn them like that before.

“She is fast asleep,” thought Claire.

The girl was right; Lady Teigne was fast asleep.

“If I let the light fall upon her face it will wake her,” she said to herself.

But it was an error; the light Claire Denville carried was too dim for that. Still she hesitated to approach the bedside, knowing that unless she took her opiate medicine Lady Teigne’s night’s rest was of a kind that rendered her peevish and irritable the whole of the next day, and as full of whims as some fretful child.

She seemed to be sleeping so peacefully that Claire once more glanced round the room prior to returning to bed.

The folding-doors were closed so that there could be no draught. The glass of lemonade was on the little table on the other side of the bed, on which ticked the little old carriage-clock, for Lady Teigne was always anxious about the lapse of time. The jewel-casket was on the —

No: the jewel-casket was not on the dressing-table, and with a spasm of dread shooting through her, Claire Denville stepped quietly to the bedside, drew back the curtain, holding the candle above her head, let fall the curtain and staggered back with her eyes staring with horror, her lips apart, and her breath held for a few moments, but to come again with a hoarse sob.

She did not shriek aloud; she did not faint. She stood there with her face thrust forward, her right arm crooked and extended as if in the act of drawing back the curtain, and her left hand still holding the candlestick above her head – stiffened as it were by horror into the position, and gazing still toward the bed.

That hoarse sob, that harsh expiration of the breath seemed to give her back her power of movement, and, turning swiftly, she ran from the room and down the short passage to rap quickly at her father’s door.

“Papa! Papa!” she cried, in a hoarse whisper, trembling now in every limb, and gazing with horror-stricken face over her shoulder, as if she felt that she was being pursued.

Almost directly she heard a faint clattering sound of a glass rattling on the top of the water-bottle as someone crossed the room, the night-bolt was raised, the door opened, and the Master of the Ceremonies stood there, tall and thin, with his white hands tightly holding his long dressing-gown across his chest.

His face was ghastly as he gazed at Claire. There was a thick dew over his forehead, so dense that it glistened in the light of the candle, and made his grey hair cling to his white temples.

He had evidently not been undressed, for his stiff white cravat was still about his neck, and the silken strings of his pantaloons were still tied at the ankles. Moreover, the large signet-ring that had grown too large for his thin finger had not been taken off. It was as if he had hastily thrown off his coat, and put on his dressing-gown; but, though the night was warm, he was shivering, his lower lip trembling, and he had hard work to keep his teeth from chattering together like the glass upon the carafe.

“Father,” cried Claire, catching him by the breast, “then you have heard something?”

“Heard – heard something?” he stammered; and then, seeming to make an effort to recover his sang froid, “heard something? Yes – you – startled me.”

“But – but – oh, papa! It is too horrible!”

She staggered, and had to hold by him to save herself from falling. But recovering somewhat, she held him by one hand, then thrust herself away, looking the trembling man wildly in the face.

“Did you not hear – that cry?”

“No,” he said hastily, “no. What is the matter?”

“Lady Teigne! Quick! Oh, father, it cannot be true!”

“Lady – Lady Teigne?” he stammered, “is – is she – is she ill?”

“She is dead – she is dead!” wailed Claire.

“No, no! No, no! Impossible!” cried the old man, who was shivering visibly.

“It is true,” said Claire. “No, no, it cannot be. I must be wrong. Quick! It may be some terrible fit!”

She clung to his hand, and tried to hurry him out of the room, but he drew back.

“No,” he stammered, “not yet. Your – your news – agitated me, Claire. Does – wait a minute – does anyone – in the – in the house know?”

“No, dear. I thought I heard a cry, and I came down, and she – ”

“A fit,” he said hastily, as he took the glass from the top of the water-bottle, filled it, gulped the water down, and set bottle and glass back in their places. “A fit – yes – a fit.”

“Come with me, father, quick!” cried Claire.

“Yes. Yes, I’ll go with you – directly,” he said, fumbling for his handkerchief in the tail of the coat thrown over the chair, finding his snuff-box, and taking a great pinch.

“Come, pray come!” she cried again, as she gazed at him in a bewildered way, his trembling becoming contagious, and her lips quivering with a new dread greater than the horror at the end of the passage.

“Yes – yes,” he faltered – “I’ll come. So alarming to be woke up – like this – in the middle of the night. Shall I – shall I ring, Claire? Or will you call the maids?”

“Come with me first,” cried Claire. “It may not be too late.”

“Yes,” he cried, “it is – it is too late.”

“Father!”

“You – you said she was dead,” he cried hastily. “Yes – yes – let us go. Perhaps only a fit. Come.”

He seemed to be now as eager to go as he had been to keep back, and, holding his child’s hand tightly, he hurried with her to Lady Teigne’s apartment, where he paused on the mat to draw a long, catching breath.

The next moment the door had swung to behind them, and father and daughter stood gazing one at the other.

“Don’t, don’t,” he cried, in a low, angry voice, as he turned from her. “Don’t look at me like that, Claire. What – what do you want me to do?”

Claire turned her eyes from him to gaze straight before her in a curiously dazed manner; and then, without a word, she crossed to the bedside and drew back the curtain, fixing her father with her eyes once more.

“Look!” she said, in a harsh whisper; “quick! See whether we are in time.”

The old man uttered a curious supplicating cry, as if in remonstrance against the command that forced him to act, and, as if in his sleep, and with his eyes fixed upon those of his child, he walked up close to the bed, bent over it a moment, and then with a shudder he snatched the curtain from Claire’s hand, and thrust it down.

“Dead!” he said, with a gasp. “Dead!”

There was an awful silence in the room for a few moments, during which the ticking of the little clock on the table beyond the bed sounded painfully loud, and the beat of the waves amid the shingle rose into a loud roar.

“Father, she has been – ”

“Hush!” he half shrieked, “don’t say so. Oh, my child, my child!”

Claire trembled, and it was as though a mutual attraction drew them to gaze fixedly the one at the other, in spite of every effort to tear their eyes away.

At last, with a wrench, the old man turned his head aside, and Claire uttered a low moan as she glanced from him to the bed and then back towards the window.

“Ah!” she cried, starting forward, and, bending down beside the dressing-table, she picked up the casket that was lying half hidden by drapery upon the floor.

But the jewel-casket was quite empty, and she set it down upon the table. It had been wrenched open with a chisel or knife-blade, and the loops of the lock had been torn out.

“Shall we – a doctor – the constables?” he stammered.

“I – I do not know,” said Claire hoarsely, acting like one in a dream; and she staggered forward, kicking against something that had fallen near the casket.

She involuntarily stooped to pick it up, but it had been jerked by her foot nearer to her father, who bent down with the quickness of a boy and snatched it up, hiding it hastily beneath his dressing-gown, but not so quickly that Claire could not see that it was a great clasp-knife.

“What is that?” she cried sharply.

“Nothing – nothing,” he said.

They stood gazing at each other for a few moments, and then the old man uttered a hoarse gasp.

“Did – did you see what I picked up?” he whispered; and he caught her arm with his trembling hand.

“Yes; it was a knife.”

“No,” he cried wildly. “No; you saw nothing. You did not see me pick up that knife.”

“I did, father,” said Claire, shrinking from him with an invincible repugnance.

“You did not,” he whispered. “You dare not say you did, when I say be silent.”

“Oh, father! father!” she cried with a burst of agony.

“It means life or death,” he whispered, grasping her arm so tightly that his fingers seemed to be turned to iron. “Come,” he cried with more energy, “hold the light.”

He crossed the room and opened the folding-doors, going straight into the drawing-room, when the roar of the surf upon the shore grew louder, and as Claire involuntarily followed, she listened in a heavy-dazed way as her father pointed out that a chair had been overturned, and that the window was open and one of the flower-pots in the balcony upset.

“The jasmine is torn away from the post and balustrade,” he said huskily; “someone must have climbed up there.”

Claire did not speak, but listened to him as he grew more animated now, and talked quickly.

“Let us call up Isaac and Morton,” he said. “We must have help. The doctor should be fetched, and – and a constable.”

Claire gazed at him wildly.

“Did – did you hear anything?” he said hurriedly, as he closed the folding-doors.

“I was asleep,” said Claire, starting and shuddering as she heard his words. “I thought I heard a cry.”

“Yes, a cry,” he said; “I thought I heard a cry and I dressed quickly and was going to see, when – when you came to me. Recollect that you will be called up to speak, my child – an inquest – that is all you know. You went in and found Lady Teigne dead, and you came and summoned me. That is all you know.”

She did not answer, and he once more gripped her fiercely by the wrist.

“Do you hear me?” he cried. “I say that is all you know.”

She looked at him again without answering, and he left her to go and summon Morton and the footman.

Claire stood in the drawing-room, still holding the candlestick in her hand, with the stiffening form of the solitary old woman, whose flame of life had been flickering so weakly in its worldly old socket that the momentary touch of the extinguisher had been sufficient to put it out, lying just beyond those doors; on the other hand the roar of the falling tide faintly heard now through the closed window. She heard her father knocking at the door of her brother’s room. Then she heard the stairs creak as he descended to call up the footman from the pantry below; and as she listened everything seemed strange and unreal, and she could not believe that a horror had fallen upon them that should make a hideous gulf between her and her father for ever, blast her young life so that she would never dare again to give her innocent love to the man by whom she knew she was idolised, and make her whole future a terror – a terror lest that which she felt she knew must be discovered, if she, weak woman that she was, ever inadvertently spoke what was life and light to her – the truth.

“My God! What shall I do?”

It was a wild passionate cry for help where she felt that help could only be, and then, with her brain swimming, and a horrible dread upon her, she was about to open her lips and denounce her own father – the man who gave her life – as a murderer and robber of the dead. She turned to the door as it opened, and, deadly pale, but calm and firm now, Stuart Denville, Master of the Ceremonies at Saltinville, entered the room.

He uttered a low cry, and started forward to save her, but he was too late. Claire had fallen heavily upon her face, her hands outstretched, and the china candlestick she still held was shattered to fragments upon the floor.

At that moment, as if in mockery, a sweet, low chord of music rose from without, below the window, and floating away on the soft night air, the old man felt the sweet melody thrill his very nerves as he sank upon his knees beside his child.

Volume One – Chapter Six.
A Ghastly Serenade

“Gentlemen,” said Colonel Lascelles, “I am an old fogey, and I never break my rules. At my time of life a man wants plenty of sleep, so I must ask you to excuse me. Rockley shall take my place, and I beg – I insist – that none will stir. Smith, send the Major’s servant to see if he is better.”

A smart-looking dragoon, who had been acting the part of butler at the mess table, saluted.

“Beg pardon, sir, James Bell is sick.”

“Drunk, you mean, sir,” cried the Colonel angrily. “Confound the fellow! he is always tippling the mess wine.”

“Small blame to him, Colonel,” said the Adjutant with tipsy gravity; “’tis very good.”

“And disagreed with his master early in the evening,” said the Doctor.

Here there was a roar of laughter, in which the greyheaded Colonel joined.

“Well, gentlemen, we must not be hard,” he said. “Here, Smith, my compliments to Major Rockley, and if he is better, say we shall be glad to see him.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, “here is the Major.”

At that moment the gentleman in question entered the room, and the brilliant illumination of the table gave a far better opportunity for judging his appearance than the blind-drawn gloom of Lady Teigne’s drawing-room. He was a strikingly handsome dark man, with a fierce black moustache that seemed to divide his face in half, and then stood out beyond each cheek in a black tuft, hair highly pomatumed and curled, and bright black eyes that seemed to flash from beneath his rather overhanging brows. Five-and-thirty was about his age, and he looked it all, time or dissipation having drawn a good many fine lines, like tracings of future wrinkles, about the corners of his eyes and mouth.

“Colonel – gentlemen, a hundred apologies,” he said. “I’m not often taken like this. We must have a fresh mess-man. Our cooking is execrable.”

“And your digestion so weak,” said the Doctor, sipping his port.

“There, there,” said the Colonel hastily. “I want to get to bed. Take my place, Rockley; keep them alive. Good-night, gentlemen; I know you’ll excuse me. Good-night.”

The Colonel left his seat, faced round, stood very stiffly for a few moments, and then walked straight out of the room, while Major Rockley, who was still far from sober, took his place.

A good many bottles of port had been consumed that night, for in those days it was an English gentleman’s duty to pay attention to his port, and after turning exceedingly poorly, and having to quit the table, the Major began by trying to make up for the past in a manner that would now be classed as loud.

“Gentlemen, pray – pray, pass the decanters,” he cried. “Colonel Mellersh, that port is not to your liking. Smith, some more claret? Mr Linnell, ’pon honour, you know you must not pass the decanter without filling your glass. Really, gentlemen, I am afraid our guests are disappointed at the absence of Colonel Lascelles, and because a certain gentleman has not honoured us to-night. A toast, gentlemen: HRH.”

“HRH” was chorused as every officer and guest rose at the dark, highly-polished mahogany table, liberally garnished with decanters, bottles, and fruit; and, with a good deal of demonstration, glasses were waved in the air, a quantity of rich port was spilled, and the fact was made very evident that several of the company had had more than would leave them bright and clear in the morning.

The mess-room of the Light Dragoon Regiment was handsome and spacious; several trophies of arms and colours decorated the walls; that unusual military addition, a conservatory, opened out of one side; and in it, amongst the flowers, the music-stands of the excellent band that had been playing during dinner were still visible, though the bandsmen had departed when the cloth was drawn.

The party consisted of five-and-twenty, many being in uniform, with their open blue jackets displaying their scarlet dress vests with the ridge of pill-sized buttons closely packed from chin to waist; and several of the wearers of these scarlet vests were from time to time pouring confidences into their neighbours’ ears, the themes being two: “The cards” and “She.”

“Colonel Mellersh, I am going to ask you to sing,” said Major Rockley, after taking a glass of port at a draught, and looking a little less pale.

He turned to a striking-looking personage at his right – a keen, aquiline-featured man, with closely-cut, iron-grey hair, decisive, largish mouth with very white teeth, and piercing dark-grey eyes which had rather a sinister look from the peculiarity of his fierce eyebrows, which seemed to go upwards from where they nearly joined.

“I’m afraid my voice is in no singing trim,” said the Colonel, in a quick, loud manner.

“Come, no excuses,” cried a big heavy-faced, youngish man from the bottom of the long table – a gentleman already introduced to the reader in Lady Teigne’s drawing-room.

“No excuse, Sir Matt,” cried the Colonel; “only an apology for the quality of what I am about to sing.”

There was a loud tapping and clinking of glasses, and then the Colonel trolled forth in a sweet tenor voice an anacreontic song about women, and sparkling wine, and eyes divine, and flowing bowls, and joyous souls, and ladies bright, as dark as night, and ladies rare, as bright as fair, and so on, and so on, the whole being listened to with the deepest attention and the greatest of satisfaction by a body of gentlemen whose thoughts at the moment, if not set upon women and wine, certainly were upon wine and women.

It was curious to watch the effect of the song upon the occupants of the different chairs. The Major sat back slightly flushed, gazing straight before him at the bright face he conjured up; Sir Matthew Bray leaned forward, and bent and swayed his great handsome Roman-looking head and broad shoulders in solemn satisfaction, and his nearest neighbour, Sir Harry Payne, the handsome, effeminate and dissipated young dragoon, tapped the table with his delicate fingers and showed his white teeth. The stout Adjutant bent his chin down over his scarlet waistcoat and stared fiercely at the ruby scintillations in the decanter before him. The gentleman on his left, an insignificant-looking little civilian with thin, fair hair, screwed up his eyes and drew up his lips in what might have been a smile or a sneer, and stared at the gentleman on the Major’s left, holding himself a little sidewise so as to peer between one of the silver branches and the épergne.

The young man at whom he stared was worth a second look, as he leaned forward with his elbows upon the table and his head on one side, his cheek leaning upon his clasped hands.

He was fair with closely curling hair, broad forehead, dark eyes, and what was very unusual in those days, his face was innocent of the touch of a razor, his nut-brown beard curling closely and giving him rather a peculiar appearance among the scented and closely-shaven dandies around.

As the song went on he kept his eyes fixed on Colonel Mellersh, but the words had no charm for him: he was thinking of the man who sang, and of the remarkable qualities of his voice, uttering a sigh of satisfaction and sinking back in his seat as the song ended and there was an abundance of applause.

“Come,” cried Major Rockley, starting up again; “I have done so well this time, gentlemen, that I shall call upon my friend here, Mr Linnell, to give us the next song.”

“Indeed, I would with pleasure,” said the young man, colouring slightly; “but Colonel Mellersh there will tell you I never sing.”

“No; Linnell never sings, but he’s a regular Orpheus with his lute or pipe – I mean the fiddle and the flute.”

“Then perhaps he will charm us, and fancy he has come into the infernal regions for the nonce; only, ’fore gad, gentlemen, I am not the Pluto who has carried off his Eurydice.”

“Really, this is so unexpected,” said the young man, “and I have no instrument.”

“Oh, some of your bandsmen have stringed instruments, Rockley.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” cried the Major. “What is it to be, Mr Linnell? We can give you anything. Why not get up a quintette, and let Matt Bray there take the drum, and charming Sir Harry Payne the cymbals?”

“Play something, Dick,” said Colonel Mellersh quietly.

“Yes, of course,” said the young man. “Will you help me?”

“Oh, if you like,” said the Colonel. “Rockley, ask your men to lend us a couple of instruments.”

“Really, my dear fellow, we haven’t a lute in the regiment.”

“I suppose not,” said the Colonel dryly. “A couple of violins will do. Here, my man, ask for a violin and viola.”

The military servant saluted and went out, and to fill up the time Major Rockley proposed a toast.

“With bumpers, gentlemen. A toast that every man will drink. Are you ready?”

There was a jingle of glasses, the gurgle of wine, and then a scattered volley of “Yes!”

“Her bright eyes!” said the Major, closing his own and kissing his hand.

“Her bright eyes!” cried everyone but the Adjutant, who growled out a malediction on somebody’s eyes.

Then the toast was drunk with three times three, there was the usual clattering of glasses as the gentlemen resumed their seats, and some of those who had paid most attention to the port began with tears in their eyes to expatiate on the charms of some special reigning beauty, receiving confidences of a like nature. Just then, the two instruments were brought and handed to the Colonel and Richard Linnell, a sneering titter going round the table, and a whisper about “fiddlers” making the latter flush angrily.

“Yes, gentlemen, fiddlers,” said Colonel Mellersh quietly; “and it requires no little skill to play so grand and old an instrument. I’ll take my note from you, Dick.”

Flushing more deeply with annoyance, Richard Linnell drew his bow across the A string, bringing forth a sweet pure note that thrilled through the room, and made one of the glasses ring.

“That’s right,” said the Colonel. “I wish your father were here. What’s it to be?”

“What you like,” said Linnell, whose eyes were wandering about the table, as if in search of the man who would dare to laugh and call him “fiddler” again.

“Something simple that we know.”

Linnell nodded.

“Ready, gentlemen,” said the Major, with a sneering look at Sir Harry Payne. “Silence, please, ye demons of the nether world. ‘Hark, the lute!’ No: that’s the wrong quotation. Now, Colonel – Mr Linnell, we are all attention.”

Richard Linnell felt as if he would have liked to box the Major’s ears with the back of the violin he held; but, mastering his annoyance, he stood up, raised it to his shoulder, and drew the bow across the strings, playing in the most perfect time, and with the greatest expression, the first bars of a sweet old duet, the soft mellow viola taking up the seconds; and then, as the players forgot all present in the sweet harmony they were producing, the notes came pouring forth in trills, or sustained delicious, long-drawn passages from two fine instruments, handled by a couple of masters of their art.

As they played on sneers were changed for rapturous admiration, and at last, as the final notes rang through the room in a tremendous vibrating chord that it seemed could never have been produced by those few tightly-drawn strings, there was a furious burst of applause, glasses were broken, decanters hammered the table, and four men who had sunk beneath, suffering from too many bottles, roused up for the moment to shout ere they sank asleep again, while the Major excitedly stretched out his hand first to one and then to the other of the performers.

“Gentlemen,” he cried at last, hammering the table to obtain order, “I am going to ask a favour of our talented guests. This has come upon me like a revelation. Such music is too good for men.”

“Hear! hear! hear! hear!” came in chorus.

“It is fit only for the ears of those we love.”

“Hear! – hear! – hear! – hear!”

“We have drunk their health, to-night; each the health of the woman of his heart.”

“Hear! – hear! – hear! – hear!”

“And now, as we have such music, I am going to beg our guests to come with us and serenade a lady whose name I will not mention.”

“Hear! – hear! – hurrah!”

“It is the lady I am proud to toast, and I ask the favour of you, Colonel Mellersh, of you, Mr Linnell, to come and play that air once through beneath her window.”

“Oh, nonsense, Rockley. My dear fellow, no,” cried the Colonel.

“My dear Mellersh,” said the Major with half-tipsy gravity. “My dear friend; and you, my dear friend Linnell, I pray you hear me. It may mean much more than you can tell – the happiness of my life. Come, my dear fellow, you’ll not refuse.”

“What do you say, Linnell?” cried the Colonel good-humouredly.

“Oh, it is so absurd,” said Linnell warmly.

“No, no, not absurd,” said the Major sternly. “I beg you’ll not refuse.”

“Humour him, Dick,” said the Colonel in a whisper.

“You are telling him not to play,” said the Major fiercely.

“My dear fellow, no: I was asking him to consent. Humour him, Dick,” said the Colonel. “It’s nearly two, and there’ll be no one about. If we refuse it may mean a quarrel.”

“I’ll go if you wish it,” said Richard Linnell quietly.

“All right, Major; we’ll serenade your lady in good old Spanish style,” said the Colonel laughingly. “Quick, then, at once. How far is it?”

“Not far,” cried the Major. “Who will come? Bray, Payne, and half a dozen more. Will you be one, Burnett?”

“No, not I,” said the little, fair man with the sneering smile; “I shall stay;” and he gave effect to his words by sinking back in his chair and then gliding softly beneath the table.

“Just as you like,” said the Major, and the result was that a party of about a dozen sallied out of the barrack mess-room, crossed the yard, and were allowed to pass by the sentry on duty, carbine on arm.

It was a glorious night, and as they passed out into the fresh, pure air and came in sight of the golden-spangled sea, which broke amongst the shingle with a low, dull roar, the blood began to course more quickly through Linnell’s veins, the folly of the adventure was forgotten, and a secret wish that he and the Colonel were alone and about to play some sweet love ditty, beneath a certain window, crossed his brain.

For there was something in the time there, beneath the stars that were glitteringly reflected in the sea! Did she love him? Would she ever love him? he thought, and he walked on in a sweet dream of those waking moments, forgetful of the Major, and hearing nothing of the conversation of his companions, knowing nothing but the fact that he was a man of seven and twenty, whose thoughts went hourly forth to dwell upon one on whom they had long been fixed, although no words had passed, and he had told himself too often that he dare not hope.

“Who is the Major’s Gloriana, Dick?” asked the Colonel suddenly. “By Jove, I think we had better tune up a jig. It would be far more suited to the woman he would choose than one of our young composer’s lovely strains.”

“I don’t know. He’s going towards our place. Can it be Cora Dean?”

“Hang him, no,” said the Colonel pettishly. “Perhaps so, though. I hope not, or we shall have your father calling us idiots – deservedly so – for our pains. Wrong, Dick; the old man will sleep in peace. Will it be Drelincourt?”

“Madame Pontardent, perhaps.”

“No, no, no, my lad; he’s going straight along. How lovely the sea looks!”

“And how refreshing it is after that hot, noisy room.”

“Insufferable. What fools men are to sit and drink when they might play whist!”

“And win money,” said Linnell drily.

“To be sure, my lad. Oh, you’ll come to it in time. Where the dickens is he going? Who can the lady be?”

The Major evidently knew, for he was walking smartly ahead, in earnest converse with half a dozen more. Then came the Colonel and his companion, and three more of the party brought up the rear.

The Major’s course was still by the row of houses that faced the sea, now almost without a light visible, and Richard Linnell was dreamily watching the waves that looked like liquid gold as they rose, curved over and broke upon the shingle, when all the blood seemed to rush at once to his heart, and then ebb away, leaving him choking and paralysed, for the Colonel suddenly said aloud:

“Claire Denville!”

And he saw that their host of the night had stopped before the house of the Master of the Ceremonies.

The blood began to flow again, this time with a big wave of passionate rage in Richard Linnell’s breast. He was furious. How dared that handsome libertine profane Claire Denville by even thinking of her? How dared he bring him there, to play beneath the window – the window he had so often watched, and looked upon as a sacred temple – the resting-place of her he loved.

He was ready to seize the Major by the throat; to fight for her; to say anything; to dash down the instrument in his rage; to turn and flee; but the next moment the cool, calm voice of the Colonel brought him to his senses, and he recalled that this was his secret – his alone – this secret of his love.

“I did not know the Major was warm there. Well, she’s a handsome girl, and he’s welcome, I dare say.”

Linnell felt ready to choke again, but he could not speak. He must get out of this engagement, though, at any cost.

As he was musing, though, he found himself drawn as it were to where the Major and his friends were standing in front of the silent house, and the Colonel said:

“Come, my lad, let’s run through the piece, and get home to bed. I’m too old for such tom-fool tricks as these.”

“I will not play! It is an insult! It is madness!” thought Richard Linnell; and then, as if in a dream, he found himself the centre of a group, fuming at what he was doing, while, as if in spite of his rage, he was drawing the sweet echoing strains from the violin, listening to the harmonies added by his friend, and all in a nightmare-like fashion, playing involuntarily on, and gazing at the windows he had so often watched.

On, on, on, the notes poured forth, throbbing on the night air, sounding pensive, sweet and love-inspiring, maddening too, as he tried to check his thoughts, and played with more inspiration all the while till the last bar, with its diminuendo, was reached, and he stood there, palpitating, asking himself why he had done this thing, and waiting trembling in his jealous rage, lest any notice should be taken of the compliment thus paid.

Did Claire Denville encourage the Major – that libertine whose amours were one of the scandals of the place? Oh, it was impossible. She would not have heard the music. If she had she would have thought it from some wanderers, for she had never heard him play. She would not notice it. She would not heed it. In her virgin youth and innocency it was a profanation to imagine that Claire Denville – sweet, pure Claire Denville – the woman he worshipped, could notice such an attention. No, it was impossible she would; and his eyes almost started as he gazed at the white-curtained windows, looking so solemn and so strange.

No, no, no; she would not notice, even if she had heard, and a strange feeling of elation came into the jealous breast.

“Come,” he said hoarsely, “let us go.”

“One moment, lad. Ah, yes,” said the Colonel. “Gloriana has heard the serenade, and is about to respond to her lover’s musically amatory call. Look, Dick, look.”

Richard Linnell’s heart sank, for a white arm drew back the curtain, and then the catch of the window fastening was pressed back, and a chord in the young man’s breast seemed to snap; but it was only the spring of the window hasp.

Click!

Volume One – Chapter Seven.
After the Storm

The “ghastly serenade” it was called at Saltinville as the facts became known.

That night Richard Linnell was standing with his teeth set, his throat dry, and a feeling of despair making his heart seem to sink, watching the white hand that was waved as soon as the sash was opened. Half blind with the blood that seemed to rush to his eyes, he glared at the window. Then a sudden revulsion of feeling came over him as a familiar voice that was not Claire’s cried, “Help! – a doctor!” and then the speaker seemed to stagger away.

The rest was to Richard Linnell like some dream of horror, regarding which he recalled the next morning that he had thundered at the door, that he had helped to carry Claire to her room, and that he had afterwards been one of the group who stood waiting in the dining-room until the doctor came down to announce that Miss Denville was better – that Lady Teigne was quite dead.

Then they had stolen out on tiptoe, and in the stillness of the early morning shaken hands all round and separated, the Major remaining with them, and walking with Colonel Mellersh and Richard Linnell to their door.

“What a horror!” he said hoarsely. “I would not for the world have taken you two there had I known. Good-night – good-morning, I should say;” and he, too, said those words – perhaps originated the saying – “What a ghastly serenade!”

Nine days – they could spare no more in Saltinville, for it would have spoiled the season – nine days’ wonder, and then the news that a certain royal person was coming down, news blown by the trumpet of Fame with her attendants, raised up enough wind to sweep away the memory of the horror on the Parade.

“She was eighty if she was a day,” said Sir Matthew Bray: “and it was quite time the old wretch did die.”

“Nice way of speaking of a lady whose relative you are seeking to be,” said Sir Harry Payne. “Sweet old nymph. How do you make it fit, Matt?”

“Fit? Some scoundrel of a London tramp scaled the balcony, they say. Fine plunder, the rascal! All those diamonds.”

“Which she might have left her sister, and then perhaps they would have come to you, Matt.”

“Don’t talk stuff.”

“Stuff? Why, you are besieging the belle. But, I say, I have my own theory about that murder.”

“Eh, have you?” cried the great dragoon, staring open-mouthed.

“Egad! yes, Matt. It was not a contemptible robbery.”

“Wasn’t it? You don’t say so.”

“But I do,” cried Sir Harry seriously. “Case of serious jealousy on the part of some lover of the bewitching creature. He came in the dead o’ night and smothered the Desdemona with a pillow. What do you say, Rockley?”

The Major had strolled across the mess-room and heard these words.

“Bah! Don’t ridicule the matter,” he said. “Change the subject.”

“As you like, but the feeble flame only wanted a momentary touch of the extinguisher and it was gone.”

At the house on the Parade there had been terrible anguish, and Claire Denville suffered painfully as she passed through the ordeal of the examination that ensued.

But everything was very straightforward and plain. There were the marks of some one having climbed up the pillar – an easy enough task. The window opened without difficulty from without, a pot or two lay overturned in the balcony, a chair in the drawing-room, evidently the work of some stranger, and the valuable suite of diamonds was gone.

The constable arrested three men of the street tumbler and wandering vagrant type, who were examined, proved easily that they were elsewhere; and after the vote of condolence to our esteemed fellow-townsman, Stuart Denville, Esq, which followed the inquest, there seemed nothing more to be done but to bury Lady Teigne, which was accordingly done, and the principal undertaker cleared a hundred pounds by the grand funeral that took place, though it was quite a year before Lady Drelincourt would pay the whole of his bill.

So with Lady Teigne the horror was buried too, and in a fortnight the event that at one time threatened to interfere with the shopkeepers’ and lodging-letters’ season was forgotten.

For that space of time, too, the familiar figure of the Master of the Ceremonies was not seen upon the Parade. Miss Denville was very ill, it was said, and after the funeral Isaac had to work hard at answering the door to receive the many cards that were left by fashionable people, till there was quite a heap in the old china bowl that stood in the narrow hall.

But the outside world knew nothing of the agonies of mind endured by the two principal occupants of that house – of the nights of sleepless horror passed by Claire as she knelt and prayed for guidance, and of the hours during which the Master of the Ceremonies sat alone, staring blankly before him as if at some scene which he was ever witnessing, and which seemed to wither him, mind and body, at one stroke.

For that fortnight, save at the inquest, father and daughter had not met, but passed their time in their rooms. But the time was gliding on, and they had to meet – the question occurring to each – how was it to be?

“I must leave it to chance,” thought the Master of the Ceremonies, with a shiver; and after a fierce struggle to master the agony he felt, he knew that in future he must lead two lives. So putting on his mask, he one morning walked down to the breakfast-room, and took his accustomed place.

Outwardly he seemed perfectly calm, and, save that the lines about his temples and the corners of his lips seemed deeper, he was little changed; but as he walked he was conscious of a tremulous feeling in the knees, and even when seated, that the curious palsied sensation went on.

On the previous night Morton had come in from a secret fishing excursion, to find the house dark and still, and he had stood with his hands in his pockets hesitating as to whether he should go and take a lesson in smoking with Isaac in the pantry, steal down to the beach, or creep upstairs.

He finally decided on the latter course, and going up to the top of the house on tiptoe, he tapped softly at Claire’s bedroom door.

It was opened directly by his sister, who had evidently just risen from an old dimity-covered easy-chair. She was in a long white dressing-gown, and, seen by the light of the one tallow candle on the table, she looked so pale and ghastly that the lad uttered an ejaculation and caught hold of her thin, cold hands.

“Claire! – Sis!”

They were the first warm words of sympathy she had heard since that horrible night; and in a moment the icy horror upon her face broke up, her lips quivered, and, throwing her arms around her brother’s neck, she burst into such a passion of hysterical sobbing that, as he held her to his breast, he grew alarmed.

He had stepped into the little white room where the flower screen stood out against the night sky, and as the door swung to, he had felt Claire sinking upon her knees, and imitating her action, he had held her there for some time till the attitude grew irksome, and then sank lower till he was seated on the carpet, holding his sister half-reclining across his breast.

“Oh! don’t – don’t, Claire – Sis,” he whispered from time to time, as he kissed the quivering lips, and strove in his boyish way to soothe her. “Sis dear, you’ll give yourself such a jolly headache. Oh, I say, what’s the good of crying like that?”

For answer she only clung the tighter, the pent-up agony escaping in her tears, though she kissed him passionately again and again, and nestled to his breast.

“You’ll make yourself ill, you know,” he whispered. “I say, don’t. The dad’s ill, and you’ll upset him more.”

Still she sobbed on and wept, the outburst saving her from some more terrible mental strain.

“I wanted to come and comfort you,” he said. “I did not know you’d go on like this.”

She could not tell him that he was comforting her; that she had been tossed by a horrible life-storm that threatened to wreck her reason, and that when she had lain longing for the sympathy of the sister who now kept away, saying it was too horrible to come there now, she had found no life-buoy to which to cling. And now her younger brother had come – the elder forbidden the house – and the intensity of the relief she felt was extreme.

“Here, I can’t stand this,” he said at last, almost roughly. “I shall go down and send Ike for the doctor.”

She clung to him in an agony of dread lest he should go, and her sobs grew less frequent.

“Come, that’s better,” he said, and he went on in his rough boyish selfishness, talking of his troubles and ignoring those of others, unconsciously strengthening Claire, as he awakened her to a sense of the duties she owed him, and giving her mental force for the terrible meeting and struggle that was to come.

For she dared not think. She shrank from mentally arguing out those two questions of duty – to society and to her father.

Was she to speak and tell all she knew?

Was she to be silent?

All she could do was to shrink within herself, and try to make everything pass out of her thoughts while she was sinking into the icy chains of idiocy.

But now, when she had been giving up completely, and at times gazing out to sea with horrible thoughts assailing her, and suggestions like temptations to seek for oblivion as the only escape from the agony she suffered, the life-raft had reached her hands, and she clung to it with all the tenacity of one mentally drowning fast.

There was something soothing in the very sound of her brother’s rough voice speaking in a hoarse whisper; and his selfish repinings over the petty discomforts he had suffered came like words of comfort and rest.

“It has been so jolly blank and miserable downstairs,” he went on as he held her, and involuntarily rocked himself to and fro. “Ike and Eliza have been always gossiping at the back and sneaking out to take dinner or tea or supper with somebody’s servants, so as to palaver about what’s gone on here.”

A pause.

“There’s been scarcely anything to eat. I’ve been half-starved.”

“Oh, Morton, my poor boy!”

Those were the first words Claire had uttered since the inquest, and they were followed by a fresh burst of sobs.

“Oh, come, come. Do leave off,” he cried pettishly. “I say it’s all very well for the old man to growl at me for fishing, but if I hadn’t gone catching dabs and a little conger or two, I should have been starved.”

She raised her face and kissed him. Some one else was suffering, and her woman’s instinct to help was beginning to work.

“What do you think I did, Sis? Oh, you don’t know. I’d been up to Burnett’s to see May, but the beggars had sneaked off and gone to London. Just like Franky Sneerums and wax-doll May. Pretty sort of a sister to keep away when we’re in trouble.”

“Oh, don’t, my dear boy,” whispered Claire in a choking voice.

“Oh, yes, I shall. They’re ashamed of me and of all of us. Just as if we could help the old girl being killed here.”

A horrible spasm ran through Claire.

“Don’t jump like that, stupid,” said Morton roughly. “You didn’t kill her.”

“Hush! hush!”

“No, I shan’t hush. It’ll do you good to talk and hear what people say, my pretty old darling Sis. There, there hush-a-bye, baby. Cuddle up close, and let’s comfort you. What’s the matter now?”

Claire had struggled up, with her hands upon his shoulders, and was gazing wildly into his eyes.

“What – what do people say?” she panted.

“Be still, little goose – no; pretty little white pigeon,” he said, more softly, as he tried to draw her towards him.

“What – do they say?” she cried, in a hoarse whisper, and she trembled violently.

“Why, that it is a jolly good job the old woman is dead, for she was no use to anyone.”

Claire groaned as she yielded once more to his embrace.

“Fisherman Dick says – I say, he is a close old nut there’s no getting anything out of him! – says he don’t see that people like Lady Teigne are any use in the world.”

“Morton!”

“Oh, it’s all right. I’m only telling you what he said. He says too that the chap who did it – I say, don’t kick out like that, Sis. Yes, I shall go on: I’m doing you good. Fisherman Dick, and Mrs Miggles too, said that I ought to try and rouse you up, and I’m doing it. You’re ever so much better already. Why, your hands were like dabs when I came up, and now they are nice and warm.”

She caressed his cheek with them, and he kissed her as she laid her head on his shoulder.

“Dick Miggles said that the diamonds would never do the chap any good who stole ’em.”

Once more that hysterical start, but the boy only clasped his sister more tightly, and went on:

“Dick says he never knew anyone prosper who robbed or murdered, or did anything wrong, except those who smuggled. I say, Sis, I do feel sometimes as if I should go in for a bit of smuggling. There are some rare games going on.”

Claire clung to him as if exhausted by her emotion.

“Dick’s been in for lots of it, I know, only he’s too close to speak. I don’t know what I should have done if it hadn’t been for them. I’ve taken the fish I’ve caught up there, and Polly Miggles has cooked them, and we’ve had regular feeds.”

“You have been up there, Morton?” said Claire wildly.

“Yes; you needn’t tell the old man. What was I to do? I couldn’t get anything to eat here. I nursed the little girl for Mrs Miggles while she cooked, and Dick has laughed at me to see me nurse the little thing, and said it was rum. But I don’t mind; she’s a pretty little tit, and Dick has taught her to call me uncle.”

Volume One – Chapter Eight.
The First Meeting

It was the next morning that the Master of the Ceremonies made his effort, and went down to the breakfast-room, where he sat by the table, playing with the newspaper that he dared not try to read, and waiting, wondering, in a dazed way, whether his son or his daughter would come in to breakfast.

The paper fell from his hands, and as he sat there he caught at the table, drawing the cloth aside and holding it with a spasmodic clutch, as one who was in danger of falling.

For there was the creak of a stair, the faint rustle of a dress, and he knew that the time had come.

He tried to rise to his feet, but his limbs refused their office, and the palsied trembling that had attacked him rose to his hands. Then he loosened his hold of the table, and sank back in his chair, clinging to the arms, and with his chin falling upon his breast.

At that moment the door opened, and Claire glided into the room.

She took a couple of steps forward, after closing the door, and then caught at the back of a chair to support herself.

The agony and horror in his child’s face, as their eyes met, galvanised Denville into life, and, starting up, he took a step forward, extending his trembling hands.

“Claire – my child!” he cried, in a husky voice.

His hands dropped, his jaw fell, his eyes seemed to be starting, as he read the look of horror, loathing, and shame in his daughter’s face, and for the space of a full minute neither spoke.

Then, as if moved to make another effort, he started spasmodically forward.

“Claire, my child – if you only knew!”

But she shrank from him with the look of horror intensified.

“Don’t – don’t touch me,” she whispered, in a harsh, dry voice. “Don’t: pray don’t.”

“But, Claire – ”

“I know,” she whispered, trembling violently. “It is our secret. I will not speak. Father – they should kill me first; but don’t – don’t. Father – father – you have broken my heart!”

As she burst forth in a piteous wail in these words, the terrible involuntary shrinking he had seen in her passed away. The stiff angularity that had seemed to pervade her was gone, and she sank upon her knees, holding by the back of the chair, and rested her brow upon her hands, sobbing and drawing her breath painfully.

He stood there gazing down at her, but for a time he did not move. Then, taking a step forward, he saw that she heard him, and shrank again.

“Claire, my child,” he gasped once more, “if you only knew!”

“Hush! – for God’s sake, hush!” she said, in a whisper. “Can you not see? It is our secret. You are my father. I am trying so hard. But don’t – don’t – ”

“Don’t touch you!” he cried slowly, as she left her sentence unspoken. “Well, be it so,” he added, with a piteous sigh; “I will not complain.”

“Let it be like some horrible dream,” she said, in the same low, painful whisper. “Let me – let me go away.”

“No!” he cried, with a change coming over him; and he drew himself up as if her words had given him a sudden strength. “You must stay. You have duties here, and I have mine. Claire, you must stay, and it must be to you – to me, like some horrible dream. Some day you may learn the horrible temptations that beset my path. Till then I accept my fate, for I dare not confide more, even to you. Heaven help me in this horror, and give me strength!” he muttered to himself, with closed eyes. “I dare not die; I cannot – I will not die. I must wear the mask. Two lives to live, when heretofore one only has been so hard!”

Just then there was a quick step outside, and the tall figure of Morton Denville passed the window.

The Master of the Ceremonies glanced at Claire, who started to her feet, and then their eyes met.

“For his sake, Claire,” he whispered, “if not for mine.”

“For his sake – father,” she answered, slowly and reverently, as if it were a prayer; and then to herself, “and for yours – the duty I owe you as your child.”

“And I,” he muttered to himself, as he stood with a white hand resting upon the table. “I must bear it to the end. I must wear my mask as of old, and wilt Thou give me pardon and the strength?”

Morton entered the room fresh and animated, and his eyes lit up as he saw that it was occupied.

“That’s better!” he cried. “Morning, father,” and he clasped the old man’s hand.

“Good-morning, my dear boy,” was the answer, in trembling tones; and then, with the ghost of a smile on the wan lips, “have you been – ”

Morton had boisterously clasped Claire in his arms, and kissed her with effusion; and as he saw the loving, wistful look in his child’s face, as she passionately returned the caress – one that he told himself would never again be bestowed on him – a pang shot through the old man’s breast, and the agony seemed greater than he could bear.

“So – so glad to see you down again, my dear, dear, dear old Sis,” cried Morton, with a kiss at almost every word. Then, half holding her still, he turned to the pale, wistful face at the other side of the room, and exclaimed:

“Yes, sir. Don’t be angry with me. I have been down again, catching dabs.”

Volume One – Chapter Nine.
Wearing His Mask

“Really, ladies, I – er – should – er – esteem it an honour, but my powers here are limited, and – ”

“Rubbish!”

“You’ll pardon me?”

“I say – rubbish, Denville.”

“Mamma, will you hold your tongue?”

“No, miss; if it comes to that, I won’t! Speaking like that to your own mother, who’s always working for you as I am, right out here on the open cliff, where goodness knows who mayn’t – ”

“Mother, be silent!”

“Silent, indeed!”

“Ladies, ladies, you’ll pardon me. I say my powers here are – er – very limited.”

“Yes, I know all about that, but you must get invitations for mamma and me for the next Assembly.”

“I’ll try, Miss Dean, but – you’ll pardon me – ”

“There, don’t shilly-shally with him, Betsy; it’s all business. Look here, Denville, the day the invitations come there’ll be five guineas wrapped up in silver paper under the chayny shepherdess on my droring-room mantelpiece, if you’ll just call and look under.”

“Really, Mrs Dean, you – you shock me. I could not think of – er – really – er – I will try my best.”

“That you will, I know, Mr Denville. Don’t take any notice of mamma I hope Miss Denville and Mrs Burnett are well.”

“In the best of health, Miss Dean, I thank you. I will – er – do my best. A lovely morning, Mrs Dean. Your humble servant. Miss Cora, yours. Good-morning.”

“A nasty old humbug; but he’ll have the invitations sent,” said Mrs Dean, a big, well-developed, well-preserved woman of fifty, with bright dark eyes that glistened and shone like pebbles polished by the constant attrition of the blinking lids.

“I wish you would not be so horridly coarse, mother; and if you don’t drop that ‘Betsy’ we shall quarrel,” said the younger lady, who bore a sufficient likeness to the elder for anyone to have stamped them mother and daughter, though the latter was wanting in her parent’s hardness of outline, being a magnificent specimen of womanly beauty. Dark and thoroughly classic of feature, large-eyed, full-lipped, perhaps rather too highly coloured, but this was carried off by the luxuriant black hair, worn in large ringlets flowing down either side of the rounded cheeks they half concealed, by her well-arched black brows and long dark lashes, which shaded her great swimming eyes. Her figure was perfect, and she was in full possession of the ripest womanly beauty, as she walked slowly and with haughty carriage along the cliff, beside the elder dame.

Both ladies were dressed in the very height of the fashion, with enormous wide-spreading open bonnets, heavy with ostrich plumes, tightly-fitting dresses, with broad waistbands well up under the arms, loose scarves, long gloves and reticules ornamented with huge bows of the stiffest silk, like Brobdingnagian butterflies.

“Horrid, coarse indeed! I suppose I mustn’t open my mouth next,” said the elder lady.

“It would be just as well not,” said the younger, “when we are out.”

“Then I shall open it as wide as I like, ma’am, and when I like, so now then, Betsy.”

“As you please; only if you do, I shall go home, and I shall not go to Assembly or ball with you. It was your wish that I should be Cora.”

“No, it wasn’t. I wanted Coral, or Coralie, miss.”

“And I preferred Cora,” said the younger lady with languid hauteur, as if she were practising a part, “and you are always blurting out Betsy.”

“Blurting! There’s a way to speak to your poor mother, who has made the lady of you that you are. Carriages and diamonds, and grand dinners, and – ”

“The smell of the orange peel, and the candles, and the memory of the theatre tacked on to me. ‘Actress!’ you can see every fine madam we pass say with her eyes, as she draws her skirt aside and turns from me as if I polluted the cliff. I’ve a deal to be proud of,” cried the younger woman fiercely. “For heaven’s sake, hold your tongue!”

“Don’t go on like that, Betsy – Cora, I mean, my dear. Let ’em sneer. If your poor, dear, dead father did keep a show – well, there, don’t bite me, Bet – Cora —theatre, and make his money, it’s nothing to them, and you’ll make a marriage yet, as’ll surprise some of ’em if you plays your cards proper!”

“Mother!”

“Say mamma, my dear, now; and do smooth down, my beauty. There, there, there! I didn’t mean to upset you. There’s Lord Carboro’ coming. Don’t let him see we’ve been quarrelling again. I don’t know, though,” she added softly, as she noticed her child’s heightened colour and heaving bosom; “it do make you look so ’andsome, my dear.”

“Pish!”

“It do, really. What a beauty you are, Cora. I don’t wonder at the fools going mad after you and toasting you – as may be a countess if you like.”

“Turn down here,” said Cora abruptly. “I don’t want to see Carboro’.”

“But he made me a sign, my dear; with his eyeglass, dear.”

“Let him make a hundred,” cried Cora angrily. “He is not going to play with me. Why, he’s hanging about after that chit of Denville’s.”

“Tchah! Cora dear. I wouldn’t be jealous of a washed-out doll of a thing like that. Half-starved paupers; and with the disgrace of that horrid murder sticking all over their house.”

“Jealous!” cried Cora, with a contemptuous laugh; “jealous of her! Not likely, mother; but I mean to make that old idiot smart if he thinks he is going to play fast and loose with me. Come along.”

Without noticing the approaching figure, she turned up the next street, veiling her beautiful eyes once more with their long lashes, and gliding over the pavement with her magnificent figure full of soft undulations that the grotesque fashion of the dress of the day could not hide.

“Oh, Cora, my darling,” said her mother, “how can you be so mad and obstinate! – throwing away your chances like that.”

“Chances? What do you mean?” cried the beauty.

“Why, you know, my dear. He has never married yet; and he’s so rich, and there’s his title.”

“And are we so poor that we are to humble ourselves and beg because that man has a title?”

“But it is such a title, Betsy,” whispered the elder woman.

“And he is so old, and withered, and gouty, and is obliged to drive himself out in a ridiculous donkey-chaise.”

“Now, what does that matter, dear?”

“Not much to you, seemingly.”

“Now, my lovely, don’t – don’t. To think that I might live to see my gal, Betsy Dean, a real countess, and such a one as there ain’t anywhere at court, and she flying in my face and turning her back upon her chances.”

“Mother, do you want to put me in a rage.”

“Not in the street, dear; but do – do – turn back!”

“I shall not.”

“Then I know the reason why,” cried the elder woman.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re thinking of that nasty, poverty-stricken, brown-faced fiddler of a fellow, who hasn’t even the decency to get himself shaved. I declare he looks more like a Jew than a Christian.”

“You mean to make me angry, mother.”

“I don’t care if I do. There, I say it’s a sin and a shame. A real Earl – a real live Lord as good as proposing to you, and you, you great silly soft goose, sighing and whining after a penniless pauper who won’t even look at you. Oh! the fools gals are!”

Cora Dean’s lips were more scarlet than before, and her beautiful eyes flashed ominously, but she said nothing.

“Going silly after a fellow like that, who’s for ever hanging about after Denville’s gal. Oh! I hav’n’t patience.”

She said no more, for her daughter walked so fast that she became short of breath.

“Egad! Juno’s put out,” said James, Earl of Carboro’, peer of the realm, speaking in a high-pitched voice, and then applying one glove to his very red lips, as if he were uneasy there. “What a magnificent figure, though! She’s devilish handsome, she is, egad! It’s just as well, perhaps. I won’t follow her. I’ll go on the pier. Let her come round if she likes, and if she doesn’t – why, demme, I don’t care if she doesn’t – now that – ”

He smacked his lips, and shook his head, and then drew himself up, rearranging his quaint beaver hat that came down fore and aft, curled up tightly at the sides, and spread out widely at the flat top. He gave his ancient body a bit of a writhe, and then raised his gold eyeglass to gaze at the pier, towards which people seemed to be hastening.

“Eh? Egad, why, what’s the matter? Somebody gone overboard? I’ll go and see. No, I won’t; I’ll sit down and wait. I shall soon know. It’s deuced hot. Those railings are not safe.”

He settled himself on the first seat on the cliff, and, giving the wide watered-silk ribbon a shake, used his broad and square gold-rimmed eyeglass once more, gazing through it at the long, old-fashioned pier that ran down into the sea, amongst whose piles the bright waves that washed the chalky shore of fashionable Saltinville were playing, while an unusual bustle was observable in the little crowd of loungers that clustered on the long low erection.

Meanwhile the Master of the Ceremonies of the fashionable seaside resort honoured of royalty had continued his course towards the pier.

The trouble at his house seemed to be forgotten, and in the pursuit of his profession to serve and be observed – gentleman-in-waiting on society – he looked to-day a tall, rather slight man, with nut-brown hair, carefully curled and slightly suggestive of having been grown elsewhere, closely-shaven face of rather careworn aspect, but delicate and refined. He was a decidedly handsome, elderly man, made ridiculous by a mincing dancing-master deportment, an assumed simpering smile, and a costume in the highest fashion of George the Third’s day. His hat has been already described, for it was evidently moulded on the same block as my Lord Carboro’s, and the rest of the description will do for the costume of both – in fact, with allowances for varieties of colour and tint, for that of most of the gentlemen who flit in and out in the varied scenes of this story of old seaside life.

His thin, but shapely legs were in the tightest of pantaloons, over which were a glossy pair of Hessian boots with silken tassels where they met the knee. An extremely tight tail coat of a dark bottle green was buttoned over his breast, leaving exposed a goodly portion of a buff waistcoat below the bottom buttons, while the coat collar rose up like a protecting erection, as high as the wearer’s ears, and touched and threatened to tilt forward the curly brimmed hat. Two tiny points of a shirt collar appeared above the sides of an enormous stock which rigidly prisoned the neck; a delicate projection of cambric frilling rose from the breast; the hands were tightly gloved, one holding a riding-whip, the top of which was furnished with a broad-rimmed square eyeglass; and beneath the buff vest hung, suspended by a broad, black watered-silk ribbon, a huge bunch of gold seals and keys, one of the former being an enormous three-tabled topaz, which turned in its setting at the wearer’s will.

Such was the aspect of the Master of the Ceremonies in morning costume – the man whose services were sought by every new arrival for introduction to the Assembly Room and to the fashionable society of the day – the man who, by unwritten canons of the fashionable world, must needs be consulted for every important fête or dance, and whose offerings from supplicants – he scorned to call them clients – were supposed to yield him a goodly income, and doubtless would do so, did the season happen to be long, and society at Saltinville in force.

Parting from the ladies he had met, he passed on with a feeble smirk, growing more decided, his step more mincing, to bow to some lady, a proceeding calling for grace and ease. The raising and replacing of the hat was ever elaborate, so was the kissing of the tips of the gloves to the horsemen who cantered by. There was quite a kingly dignity full of benevolence in the nods bestowed here and there upon fishers and boatmen in dingy flannel trousers rising to the arm-pits, trousers that looked as if they would have stood alone. Then there was an encounter with a brace of beaux, a halt, the raising and replacing of their hats, and the snuff-box of the Master of the Ceremonies flashed in the bright autumn sunshine as it was offered to each in turn, and pinches were taken of the highly-scented Prince’s Mixture out of the historical prince’s present – a solid golden, deeply-chased, and massive box. Then there was a loud snuffling noise; three expirations of three breaths in a loud “Hah!” three snappings of three fingers and three thumbs, the withdrawal of three bandanna silk, gold, and scarlet handkerchiefs, to flip away a little snuff from three shirt frills; then the snuff-box flashed and glistened as it was held behind the Master of the Ceremonies, with his gold-mounted whip; three hats were raised again and replaced, their wearers having mutually decided that the day was charming, and Sir Harry Payne, officer of dragoons in mufti, like his chosen companion, Sir Matthew Bray, went one way to “ogle the gyurls,” the Master of Ceremonies the other to reach the pier.

Everyone knew him; everyone sought and returned his bow. Fashion’s high priest, the ruler of the destinies of many in the season, he was not the man to slight, and the gatekeeper drew back, hat in hand, and the bandmaster bowed low, as with pointed toes, graceful carriage, snuff-box in one hand, eyeglass and whip for the horse he never rode in the other, Stuart Denville walked behind the mask he wore, mincing, and bowing, and condescending, past the groups that dotted the breezy resort.

Half-way down the pier, but almost always hat in hand, and the set smile deepening the lines about his well-cut mouth, he became aware of some excitement towards the end.

There was a shriek and then a babble of voices talking, cries for a boat, and a rush to the side, where a lady, who had arrived in a bath-chair, pushed by a tall footman in mourning livery, surmounted by a huge braided half-moon hat, was gesticulating wildly and going to and fro, now fanning herself with a monstrous black fan, now closing it with a snap, and tapping lady bystanders with it on the shoulder or arm.

“He’ll be drowned. I’m sure he’ll be drowned. Why is there no boatman? Why is there no help? Oh, here is dear Mr Denville. Oh! Mr Denville, help, help, help!”

Here the lady half turned round, and made with each cry of “help!” a backward step towards the Master of the Ceremonies, who had not accelerated his pace a whit, for fear of losing grace, and who was only just in time – the lady managed that – to catch her as she half leaned against his arm.

“Dear Lady Drelincourt, what terrible accident has befallen us here?”

“My darling!” murmured the lady. “Save him, oh, save him, or I shall die!”

Volume One – Chapter Ten.
A Small Rescue

Small matters make great excitements among idle seaside people, and as Denville gracefully helped Lady Drelincourt to a chair, and stepped mincingly to the side of the pier, he found that the little crowd were gazing down upon the black, snub-nosed, immature bull-dog physiognomy of an extremely fat Chinese pug dog, who, in a fit of playfulness with another fashionable dog, had forgotten his proximity to the extreme edge of the pier and gone in with a splash.

He had swum round and round, evidently mistrustful of his powers to reach the shore, and, in a very stolid manner, appeared to enjoy his bath; but growing tired, he had ceased to swim, and, throwing up his glistening black muzzle, had begun to beat the water with his forepaws, uttering from time to time a dismal yelp, while a bell attached to his collar gave a ting. Ignorant of the fact that he was fat enough to float if he only kept still, he was fast approaching the state when chicken legs and macaroons would tempt in vain, when his stiffened jaws would refuse to open to the tiny ratafia well soaked in milk, and digestion pains would assail him no more, after too liberal an indulgence in the well-fried cutlet of juicy veal. The bell-hung pagoda in Lady Drelincourt’s drawing-room was likely to be vacant till another pet was bought, and as the Master of the Ceremonies gazed down at poor Titi through his glass, it was in time to see a rough fisherman throw a rope in rings to the drowning beast, evidently under the impression that the dog would seize the rope and hold on till he was drawn up, for no boat was near.

The rope was well aimed, for it struck the pet heavily, knocking him under, and the rough boatman took off his glazed hat, and scratched a very rough head, staring in wonderment at the effect of his well-meant effort.

But Titi came up again and yelped loudly, this time with a sweet, silvery, watery gurgle in his throat.

Then he turned over, and a lady shrieked. Then he paddled about on his side, and made a foam in the water, and in spite of the helpless, sympathising glances given through the gold-rimmed eyeglass of the Master of the Ceremonies, Titi must have been drowned had there not been a sudden splash from the staging of the pier somewhere below, a loud exciting cry, and a figure seen to rise from its plunge, swim steadily to the drowning dog, reach it amidst a storm of delighted cries, swim back to the staging, and disappear.

This was the correct time, and Lady Drelincourt fainted dead away, with her head resting upon her shoulder, and her shoulder on the back of her chair. Immediately there was a rustling in bow-decked reticules, smelling salts were drawn, and Lady Drelincourt’s nose was attacked. She was almost encircled with cut-glass bottles.

The Master of the Ceremonies looked on, posed in an attitude full of eager interest, and he saw, what was nothing new to his attentive gaze, that Time had behaved rudely to Lady Drelincourt; that art had been called in to hide his ravages, and that her ladyship’s attitude caused cracks in the thickened powder, and that it differed in tone from the skin beneath; that there was a boniness of bust, and an angularity of shoulder where it should have been round and soft; and that if her ladyship fainted much more he would not be answerable for the consequences to her head of hair.

But Lady Drelincourt was not going to faint much more. The dog had been saved, and she had fainted enough, so that at the first approach of a rude hand to loosen the fastenings at her throat, she sighed and gasped, struggled faintly, opened her eyes of belladonna brilliancy, stared wildly round, recovered her senses, and exclaimed:

“Where is he? Where is my Titi? Where is his preserver?” and somebody said, “Here!”

There was a hurried opening of the circle, and Stuart Denville, Esquire, Master of the Ceremonies, struck a fresh attitude full of astonishment, but, like the rest of the well-dressed throng, he shrank away, as a tall, fair youth, dripping with water, which made his hair and clothes cling closely, came from an opening that led to the piles below, squeezing the pug to free him from moisture, and gazing from face to face.

“You rascally prodigal!” whispered the Master of the Ceremonies, as the youth came abreast, “you’ve been fishing for dabs again!”

“Well, suppose I have,” said the youth sulkily.

“Where is his preserver? Give me back my darling Titi,” wailed Lady Drelincourt; and catching the wet fat dog to her breast, regardless of the effect upon her rich black silk dress and crape, the little beast uttered a satisfied yelp and nestled up to her, making a fat jump upwards so as to lick a little of the red off the lady’s lips.

“And who was it saved you, my precious?” sobbed the lady.

“Lady Drelincourt,” said the Master of the Ceremonies, taking the youth’s hand gingerly, with one glove, “allow me to introduce your dear pet’s preserver – it was Morton Denville, Lady Drelincourt, my son. I am sorry he is so very wet.”

“Bless you – bless you!” cried Lady Drelincourt with effusion. “I could embrace you, you brave and gallant man, but – but – not now.”

“No, no – not now. Lady Drelincourt, let me assist you to your chair. Morton,” he whispered, “you’re like a scarecrow: quick, be off. You dog, if you mind me now, your fortune’s made.”

“Oh, is it, father? Well, I’m precious glad. I say, isn’t it cold?”

“Yes: quick – home, and change your things. Stop; where are you going?”

“Down below, to fetch the dabs.”

“Damn the dabs, sir,” whispered the Master of the Ceremonies excitedly; “you’ll spoil the effect. Run, sir, run!”

The youth hesitated a moment and then started and ran swiftly towards the cliff, amidst a shrill burst of cheers, the ladies fluttering their handkerchiefs, and fisherman Dick Miggles wishing he had been that there boy.

“Denville – dear Denville,” said her ladyship, “how proud you must be of such a son!”

“The idol of my life, dear Lady Drelincourt,” said the Master of the Ceremonies, arranging her dress in the bath-chair. “Shall I carry the poor dog?”

“No, no – no, no, my darling Titi!” cried the lady, to his great relief. “Thomas, take me home quickly,” she said, as the wet dog nestled in her crape lap and uttered a few snuffles of satisfaction. “Quick, or Titi will take cold Denville, see me safely home. My nerves are gone.”

“The shock, of course.”

“Yes, Denville, and I shall never forget your gallant son,” sobbed her ladyship hysterically, as they passed through a lane of promenaders; “but I must not cry.”

It was indeed quite evident that such a giving way to natural feeling would have had serious results, and she was not veiled. So the rising tear was sent back, and Denville saw her safely home, forgetting for the moment his domestic troubles in his exultation, and making out a future for his son, as the rich Lady Drelincourt’s protégé – a commission – a handsome allowance. Perhaps – ah, who knew! Such unions had taken place before now.

For the next half-hour he was living artificially, seeing his son advanced in life, and his daughter dwelling in a kind of fairy castle that had been raised through Lady Drelincourt’s introduction.

Then as he approached home a black cloud seemed to come down and close him in, the artificiality was gone, age seemed to be attacking him, and he moaned as he reached the door.

“Heaven help me, and give me strength to keep up this actor’s life, for I’m very, very weak.”

Volume One – Chapter Eleven.
The Opening of a Vein

“Well, young Denville,” said Dick Miggles, the great swarthy fisherman, whose black hair, dark eyes, and aquiline features told that his name was a corruption of Miguel, and that he was a descendant of one of the unfortunates who had been wrecked and imprisoned when the Spanish Armada came to grief, and had finally resolved to “remain an Englishman.”

Dick Miggles rarely did anything in the daytime but doze and smoke. Of course, he ate and drank, and, as on the present occasion, nursed the little girl that Mrs Miggles, who was as round and snub and English of aspect as her lord was Spanish, had placed in his arms. At night matters were different, and people did say – but never mind.

“Well, young Denville,” said Fisherman Dick, as he sat on the bench outside his whitewashed cottage with the whelk-shell path, bordered with marigold beds, one of which flowers he picked from time to time to give the child.

“Well, Dick, where are my dabs?”

“Haw-haw,” said the fisherman, laughing. “I say, missus, where’s them dabs?”

Mrs Miggles was washing up the dinner things, and she came out with a dish on which were a number of fried heads and tails, with a variety of spinal and other bones.

“What a shame!” cried Morton, with a look of disgust. “I do call that shabby, Dick.”

“How was I to know that you would come after ’em, lad? I’d ha’ brote ’em, but I don’t like to come to your house now.”

“I say, Dick, don’t be a fool,” cried the lad. “What’s the good of raking up that horrid affair, now it’s all dead and buried?”

“Nay,” said Dick, shaking his head. “That ar’n’t all dead and buried, like the old woman, my lad. There’s more trouble to come out o’ that business yet.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense!”

“Nay, it isn’t, my lad. Anyhow, I don’t like coming to your place now, and there’s other reasons as well, ar’n’t there, missus?”

“Now, I do call that shabby, Dick. Just because there’s a bill owing for fish. I’ve told you I’ll pay it some day, if papa does not; I mean, when I have some money.”

“Ay, so you did, lad, and so you will, I know; but I didn’t mean that, did I, missus?”

“No,” came from within.

“What did you mean, then?”

“Never mind. You wait and see. I say, the old gentleman looks as if he’d got over the trouble, Master Morton. He was quite spry to-day.”

“No, he hasn’t,” said Morton. “It’s quite horrible at home. He’s ill, and never hardly speaks, and my sister frets all day long.”

“Do she though! Poor gal! Ah, she wants it found out, my lad. It wherrits her, because you see it’s just as if them jools of the old lady’s hung like to your folk, and you’d got to account for ’em.”

“Get out! Why, what nonsense, Dick.”

“What, dropped it agen, my pretty?” said the great fisherman, stooping to pick up a flower, and place it in the little fat hand that was playing with his big rough finger. “Ah, well, perhaps it be, but never mind. I say, though, the old gentleman looked quite hisself agen. My! he do go dandy-jacking along the cliff, more’n the best of ’em. He do make me laugh, he do. Why, hello, Master Morton, lad, what’s matter?”

“If you dare to laugh at my father, Dick,” cried the boy, whose face was flushed and eyes flashing, “big as you are, I’ll punch your head.”

“Naw, naw, naw, don’t do that, my lad,” said the fisherman, growing solemn directly. “I were not laughing at him. I were laughing at his clothes.”

“And if my father dresses like the Prince and the Duke and all the fashionable gentlemen, what is there to laugh at then? Suppose I were to laugh at you for living in that great pair of trousers that come right up under your arms?”

“Well, you might, lad, and welcome; they’re very comf’table. P’r’aps you’d like to laugh at my boots. Haw, haw, haw, Master Morton, what d’yer think I did yes’day? I took little flower here, after missus had washed her, and put her right into one o’ my boots, and she stood up in it with her head and arms out, laughing and crowing a good ’un. Ar’n’t she a little beauty?”

“Yes,” said Morton, looking down and playing with the child. “Whose is she?”

“Dunno. Ask the missus.”

“And she won’t tell me, Dick.”

“That’s so. But look here, lad. I’m sorry I laughed at Master Denville, for he’s a nice gentleman, and always has a kind word and a smile, if he doesn’t pay his bill.”

“Dick!”

“All right, my lad, all right. You’ll pay that when you’re rich. I say: chaps sez as you’ll marry Lady Drelincourt, now, after saving her dog, and – ”

“Don’t be a fool, Dick. Here, what were you going to say?” said the lad, reddening.

“You won’t want a bit of fishing then, I suppose?”

“Look here; are you going to speak, Dick, or am I to go?”

“All right, my lad. Look here; we eat your dabs, but never mind them. I shall just quietly leave a basket at your door to-night. You needn’t know anything about it, and you needn’t be too proud to take it, for a drop in the house is worth a deal sometimes, case o’ sickness. It’s real French sperit, and a drop would warm the old gentleman sometimes when he is cold.”

“Smuggling again, Dick?”

“Never you mind about that, Master Morton, and don’t call things by ugly names. But that ar’n’t all I’ve got to say. You lost your dabs, but if you’ll slip out to-night and come down the pier, the tide’ll be just right, and I’ll have the bait and lines ready, and I’ll give you as good a bit of fishing as you’d wish to have.”

“Will you, Dick?”

“Ay, that I will. They were on last night, but they’ll be wonderful to-night, and I shouldn’t wonder if we ketches more than we expex.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t go, Dick.”

“Why not, lad?”

“You see, I should have to slip out in the old way – through the drawing-room, and down the balcony pillar.”

“Same as you and Master Fred used, eh?”

“Don’t talk about him,” said the lad.

“Well, he’s your own brother.”

“Yes, but father won’t have his name mentioned,” said the boy sadly. “He’s to be dead to us. Here, what a fool I am, talking so to you!”

“Oh, I don’t know, my lad; we was always friends, since you was quite a little chap, and I used to give you rides in my boat.”

“Yes; you always were a friend, Dick, and I like you.”

“On’y you do get a bit prouder now you’re growing such a strapping chap, Master Morton.”

“I shan’t change to you, Dick.”

“Then come down to-night, say at half arter ’leven.”

Morton shook his head.

“Why, you ar’n’t afraid o’ seeing the old woman’s ghost, are you?”

“Absurd! No. But it seems so horrible to come down that balcony pillar to get out on the sly.”

“Why, you never used to think so, my lad.”

“No, but I do now. Do you know, Dick,” he said in a whisper, “I often think that the old lady was killed by some one who had watched me go in and out that way.”

“Eh?” cried the fisherman, giving a peculiar stare.

“Yes, I do,” said the lad, laying his hand on the big fellow’s shoulders. “I feel sure of it, for that murder must have been done by some one who knew how easy it was to get up there and open the window.”

“Did you ever see anyone watching of you?” said the fisherman in a hoarse whisper.

“N-no, I’m not sure. I fancy I did see some one watching one night.”

“Phew!” whistled the fisherman; “it’s rather hot, my lad, sitting here in the sun.”

“Perhaps some day I shall find out who did it, Dick.”

“Hah – yes,” said the man, staring at him hard. “Then you won’t come?”

“Yes, I will,” cried Morton. “It’s so cowardly not to come. I shall be there;” and, stopping to pick up the flower the child had again dropped, the pretty little thing smiled in his face, and he bent down and kissed it before striding away.

“Think o’ that, now,” said Mrs Miggles, coming to the door.

“Think o’ what?” growled her lord, breaking off an old sea-ditty he was singing to the child.

“Why, him taking to the little one and kissing it. How strange things is!”

Volume One – Chapter Twelve.
Mrs Burnett Makes a Call

“Gad, but the old boy’s proud of that chariot,” said Sir Matthew Bray, mystifying his sight by using an eyeglass.

“Yes,” said Sir Harry Payne, who was lolling against the railings that guarded promenaders from a fall over the cliff; and he joined his friend in gazing at an elegantly-appointed britzka which had drawn up at the side, and at whose door the Master of the Ceremonies was talking to a very young and pretty woman. “Yes; deuced pretty woman, May Burnett. What a shame that little wretch Frank should get hold of her.”

“Egad, but it was a good thing for her. I say, Harry, weren’t you sweet upon her?”

“I never tell tales out of school, Matt. ’Fore George, how confoundedly my head aches this morning.”

Just then the Master of the Ceremonies drew back, raising his hat with the greatest of politeness to the lady, and waving his cane to the coachman, who drove off, the old man going in the other direction muttering to himself, but proud and happy, while the carriage passed the two bucks, who raised their hats and were rewarded with the sweetest of smiles from a pair of very innocent, girlish-looking little lips, their owner, aptly named May, being a very blossom of girlish prettiness and dimpled innocency.

“Gad, she is pretty,” said Sir Matthew Bray. “Come along, old lad. Let’s see if Drelincourt or anyone else is on the pier.”

“Aha! does the wind blow that way, Matt? Why were you not there to save the dog?”

“Wind? what way?” said the big, over-dressed dandy, raising his eyebrows.

“Ha – ha – ha! come, come!” cried Sir Harry, touching his friend in the side with the gold knob of his cane, “how innocent we are;” and, taking Sir Matthew’s arm, they strolled on towards the pier.

“I didn’t ask you who the note was for that we left at Mother Clode’s,” said Sir Matthew sulkily.

“No; neither did I ask you where yours came from – you Goliath of foxes,” laughed Sir Harry. “But I say. ’Fore George, it was on mourning paper, and was scented with musk. Ha – ha – ha!”

Sir Matthew scowled and grumbled, but the next moment the incident was forgotten, and both gentlemen were raising their ugly beaver hats to first one and then another of the belles they passed.

Meanwhile the britzka was driven on along the Parade, and drew up at the house of the Master of the Ceremonies, where the footman descended from his seat beside the coachman, and brought envious lodging-letters to the windows on either side by his tremendous roll of the knocker and peal at the bell.

Isaac appeared directly.

Yes, Miss Denville was in, so the steps were rattled down, and Mrs Frank Burnett descended lightly, rustled up to the front door, and entered with all the hauteur of one accustomed to a large income and carriage calling.

“Ah, Claire darling!” she cried, as she was shown into the drawing-room; “how glad I shall be to see you doing this sort of thing. Really, you know, it is time.”

“Ah, May dear,” said Claire, kissing her sister affectionately, but with a grave pained look in her eyes, “I am so glad to see you. I was wishing you would come. Papa will be so disappointed: he has gone up the town to see the tailor about Morton.”

“What, does that boy want new clothes again? Papa did not say so.”

“Have you seen him, then?”

“Yes. How well he looks. But why did you want to see me?”

For answer Claire took her sister’s hand, led her to the chintz-covered sofa, and seated herself beside her, with her arm round May’s waist.

“Oh, do be careful, Claire,” said Mrs Burnett pettishly; “this is my lute-string. And, my dear, how wretchedly you do dress in a morning.”

“It is good enough for home, dear, and we are obliged to be so careful. May dear, I hardly like to ask you, but could you spare me a guinea or two?”

“Spare you a guinea or two? Why, bless the child! what can you want with a guinea or two?”

“I want it for Morton. There are several things he needs so much, and I want besides to be able to let him have a little pocket-money when he asks.”

“Oh, really, I cannot, Claire. It is quite out of the question. Frank keeps me so dreadfully short. You would never believe what trouble I have to get a few guineas from him when I am going out, and there is so much play now that one is compelled to have a little to lose. But I must be off. I have some shopping to do, and a call or two to make besides. Then there is a book to get at Miss Clode’s. I won’t ask you to come for a drive this morning.”

“No, dear, don’t. But stay a few minutes; I have something to say to you.”

“Now, whatever can you have to say, Claire dear? Nothing about that – that – oh, don’t, pray. I could not bear it. All the resolution I had was needed to come here at all, and, as I told you in my letter, it was impossible for me to come before. Frank would not let me.”

“I want to talk to you very – very seriously.”

“About that dreadful affair?”

“No,” said Claire, with a curiously solemn look coming over her face, and her voice assuming a deep, tragic tone.

“Then it is about – oh, Claire!” she cried passionately, as she glanced up at a floridly painted portrait of herself on the wall; “I do wish you would take that picture down.”

“Why should you mind that? You know papa likes it.”

“Because it reminds me so of the past.”

“When you were so weak and frivolous with that poor fellow Louis.”

“Now I did not come here to be scolded,” cried the childlike little thing passionately. “I don’t care. I did love poor Louis, and he’d no business to go away and die.”

“Hush, hush, May, my darling,” said Claire, with a pained face. “I did not scold you.”

“You did,” sobbed the other; “you said something about Louis, and that you had something to talk to me about. What is it?” she cried with a look of childish fright in her eyes. “What is it?” she repeated, and she clung to her sister excitedly.

“Hush, hush, May, I was not going to scold, only to talk to you.”

“It will keep, I’m sure,” cried May, with the scared look intensifying.

“No, dearest, it will not keep, for it is something very serious – so serious that I would not have our father know it for the world.”

“Lack-a-day, Claire,” cried Mrs Burnett, with assumed mirth forming pleasant dimples in her sweet childish face, “what is the matter?”

“I wanted to say a few words of warning to you, May dear. You know how ready people are to gossip?”

“Good lack, yes, indeed they are. But what – ?” she faltered, “what – ?”

“And several times lately they have been busy with your name.”

“With my name!” cried Mrs Burnett, with a forced laugh, and a sigh of relief.

“Yes, dear, about little bits of freedom, and – and – I don’t like to call it coquetry. I want you, dearest, to promise me that you will be a little more staid. Dear May, it pains me more than I can say.”

“Frump! frump! frump! Why you silly, weak, quakerish old frump, Claire! What nonsense to be sure! A woman in my position, asked out as I am to rout, and kettledrum, and ball, night after night, cannot sit mumchance against the wall, and mumble scandal with the old maids. Now, I wonder who has been putting all this in your head?”

“I will not repeat names, dear; but it is some one whom I can trust.”

“Then she is a scandalous old harridan, whoever she is,” cried Mrs Burnett with great warmth. “And what do you know about such matters?”

“I know it pains me to hear that my dear sister’s name is mentioned freely at the officers’ mess, and made a common toast.”

“Oh, indeed, madam; and pray what about yours? Who is talked of at every gathering, and married to everyone in turn?”

“I know nothing of those things,” said Claire coldly.

“Ah, well, all right; but, I say, when’s it to be, Claire? Don’t fribble away this season. I hear of two good opportunities for you; and – oh, I say, Claire, they do tell me that a certain gentleman said – a certain very high personage – that you were – ”

“Shame, sister!” cried Claire, starting up as if she had been stung. “How can you – how dare you, speak to me like that?”

“Hoity-toity! What’s the matter, child?”

“Child!” cried Claire indignantly. “Do you forget that you have always been as a child to me – my chief care ever since our mother died? Oh, May, May, darling, this is not like you. Pray – pray be more guarded in what you say. There, dearest, I am not angry; but this light and frivolous manner distresses me. You are Frank Burnett’s honoured wife – girl yet, I know; but your marriage lifts you at once to a position amongst women, and these light, flippant ways sit so ill upon one like you.”

“Oh, pooh! stuff! you silly, particular old frump!” cried May sharply. “Do you suppose that a married woman is going to be like a weak, prudish girl? There, there, there; I did not come to quarrel, and I won’t be scolded. I say, they tell me that handsome Major Rockley is likely to throw himself away on Cora Dean.”

“Oh, May, May, my darling!”

“You are a goose not to catch him in your own net.”

“Major Rockley?”

“Yes; he is rich and handsome. I wish I’d had him instead of Frank.”

“May, dear May!”

“Oh, I know: it’s only talk. But, I say, dear, have you heard about old Drelincourt? So shocking! In mourning, too. They say she is mad to marry some one. There, good-bye. Don’t crush my bonnet. Oh, of course; yes, I’m going to be as prudish as you, and so careful. Well, what is it?”

“May, you cannot deceive me; you have something on your mind.”

“I? Nonsense! Absurd!”

“You were going to tell me something; to ask me to help you, I am sure.”

“Well – perhaps – yes,” said the little thing, with scarlet face. “But you frightened me out of it. I daren’t now. Next time. Good-bye; good-bye; good-bye.”

She rattled these last words out hastily, kissed her sister, and hurried, in a strangely excited manner, from the room.

Claire watched the carriage go, and then sank back out of sight in a chair, to clasp her hands upon her knees, and gaze before her with a strangely old look upon her beautiful face.

For there was trouble, not help, to be obtained from the wilful, girlish wife who had so lately left her side.

Volume One – Chapter Thirteen.
A Night-Bird Trapped

It was, as Morton Denville said, cold and cheerless at his home, and the proceedings that night endorsed his words, as at half-past ten, after the servants had been dismissed, his father rose to seek his sleepless couch.

Claire rose at the same moment, starting from a silent musing fit, while Morton threw down the book he had been reading in a very ill-used way.

“Good-night, my son,” said Denville, holding out his hand, and grasping the lad’s with unusual fervour. “Good-night, father.”

“And you’ll mind and be particular now, my boy. I am sure that at last I can advance your prospects.”

“Oh, yes, father, I’ll be particular.”

“Don’t let people see you fishing there again.” “No, father, I’ll take care. Good-night. Coming Claire?” Claire had put away her needlework, and was standing cold and silent by the table.

“Good-night, Claire, my child,” said Denville, with a piteous look and appeal in his tone.

“Good-night, father.”

She did not move as the old man took a couple of steps forward and kissed her brow, laying his hands afterwards upon her head and muttering a blessing.

Then, in spite of her efforts, a chill seemed to run through her, and she trembled, while he, noting it, turned away with a look of agony in his countenance that he sought to conceal, and sank down in the nearest chair.

He seemed to be a totally different man, and those who had seen him upon the cliff and pier would not have recognised in him the fashionable fribble, whose task it was to direct the flight of the butterflies of the Assembly Room, and preside at every public dance.

“Aren’t you going to bed, father?” said Morton, trying to speak carelessly.

“Yes, yes, my son, yes. I only wish to think out my plans a little – your commission, and other matters.”

“I hope he won’t be long,” muttered Morton as he left the room. “Why, Claire, how white and cold you are! There, hang me if it isn’t enough to make a fellow sell himself to that old Lady Drelincourt for the sake of getting money to take care of you. If I’d got plenty, you should go abroad for a change.”

Claire kissed him affectionately.

“Hang me if I don’t begin to hate May. She doesn’t seem like a sister to us. Been here to-day, hasn’t she? I heard they’d come back.”

“Yes,” said Claire with a sigh.

“It was cowardly of them to go off like that, when you were in such trouble. You did not have a single woman come and say a kind word when —that was in the house.”

“Don’t speak of it, dear,” said Claire. “Mrs Barclay came, though.”

“Rum old girl! I always feel ready to laugh at her.”

“She has a heart of gold.”

“Old Barclay has a box of gold, and nice and tightly he keeps it locked up. I say, he’ll sell us up some day.”

“Morton dear, I can’t bear to talk to you to-night; and don’t speak like that of May. She has her husband to obey.”

“Bless him!” cried Morton musingly. “Good-night, Sis.”

He kissed her affectionately, and a faint smile came into Claire’s wan face, as it seemed to comfort her in her weary sorrow. Then they parted, and she went to her room, opened the window, and sat with her face among the flowers, watching the sea and thinking of some one whom she had in secret seen pass by there at night.

That was a dream of the past, she told herself now, for it could never be. Love, for her, was dead; no man could call her wife with such a secret as she held in her breast, and as she thought on, her misery seemed greater than she could bear.

The tide was well up, and the stars glittered in the heaving bosom of the sea as she sat and gazed out; and then all at once her heart seemed to stand still, and then began beating furiously, for a familiar step came slowly along the cobble-paved walk in front of the house, along by the railed edge of the cliff, and then for a moment she could see the tall, dark figure she knew so well, gazing wistfully up at the window.

She knew he loved her; she knew that her heart had gone out to him, though their acquaintance was of the most distant kind. She knew, too, how many obstacles poverty had thrown in the way of both, but some day, she had felt, all would be swept away. Now all that was past. She must never look at him again.

She shrank from the window, and sank upon her knees, weeping softly for the unattainable, as she felt how he must love her, and that his heart was with her in sympathy with all her trouble.

“Dead – dead – dead,” she moaned; “my love is dead, and my life-course broadly marked out, so that I cannot turn to the right or left.”

She started and shuddered, for below her there was the tread of a heavy foot. She heard her father’s slight cough, and his closing door, and at the same moment, as if it were he who separated them, the step outside could be heard returning, and Claire arose and crept to the window again to listen till it died away.

“Dead – dead – my love is dead,” she moaned again, and closing the window, she strove to forget her agony of mind and the leaden weight that seemed to rest upon her brow in sleep.

Eleven had struck, and two quarters had chimed before Morton Denville dared to stir. He had waited with open door, listening impatiently for his father’s retiring; he had listened to the steps outside; and then at last, with all the eagerness of a boy, in spite of his near approach to manhood, and excited by the anticipations of the fishing, and the romance of the little adventure, he stole forth with his shoes in his hands, after carefully closing the catch of his well-oiled door.

The crucial part was the passing of the end of the passage leading to his father’s room, and here he paused for a few moments, but he fancied he could hear a long-drawn breathing, and, after a hasty glance at the door of the back drawing-room, erst Lady Teigne’s chamber, he opened the drawing-room door, stepped in and closed it.

He breathed more freely now, but a curious chill ran through him, and he felt ready to retreat as he saw that the folding-doors were not closed, and that the faint light from the back window made several articles of furniture look grotesque and strange.

“Here am I, just twenty, and as cowardly as a girl,” he muttered. “I won’t be afraid.”

All the same, though, his heart beat violently, and he shrank from moving for some minutes.

“And Dick waiting,” he muttered.

Those words gave him the strength he sought, and, going on tiptoe across the room, half feeling as if a hand were going to be laid upon his shoulder to keep him back, he drew aside the blind, opened the French window, passed out, closed it after him, and stood there in the balcony, gazing at the heaving, star-spangled sea.

“I can’t be a man yet,” he said to himself. “If I were I shouldn’t feel so nervous. It is very horrid, though, the first time after that old woman was killed; and by some one coming up there. Ugh! it’s very creepy. I half fancied I could hear the old girl snoring as she used.”

He leaned over the balcony rails and looked to right and left, but all seemed silent in the sleeping town, and after listening for a minute or two he seized the support of the balcony roof, stepped over the rails, lowered himself a little, and clasping the pillar with his legs, slid easily down, rested for a moment on the railings with his feet between the spikes, and then, clasping the pillar, dropped lightly down upon the pavement, to be seized by two strong hands by arm and throat, a dark figure having stepped out of the doorway to hold him fast.

Volume One – Chapter Fourteen.
Something Thrown in the Sea

“What – ”

“Hush! Who are you? What are you doing here? Why, Morton Denville!”

“Richard Linnell! Is it you? Oh, I say, you did give me a scare. I thought it was that chap come again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, the fellow who did that, you know,” said the lad with a nod upwards.

“But why have you stolen down like this, sir?”

“Don’t talk so loud; you’ll wake the old man. Only going fishing.”

“Fishing? Now?”

“Yes. Fisherman Dick’s waiting for me on the pier.”

“Is this true?” asked Linnell sternly. “True! What do you mean?” said the lad haughtily. “Did you ever know a Denville tell a lie?”

“No, of course not. But it looks bad, young fellow, to see you stealing out of the house like this, and after that ghastly affair.”

“Hush, don’t talk about it,” said the lad with a shudder. “But, I say, how came you here?”

“I – I – ” stammered Linnell. “Oh, I was walking along the cliff and I saw the window open. I thought something was wrong, and I crossed to see.”

“Did you think some one had come to run away with my sister, Mr Linnell?” said the lad with a sneering laugh. “Ah, well, you needn’t have been alarmed, and if they had it would have been no business of yours.”

Richard Linnell drew his breath with a faint hiss.

“That’s rather a sneering remark, young gentleman,” he said coldly; “but there, I don’t want to quarrel with you.”

“All the same to me if you did, only if you will take a bit of good advice, stop at home, and don’t be hanging about gentlemen’s houses at this time of night. It looks bad. There, now you can knock at the door and ring them up and tell them I’ve gone fishing. I don’t care.”

He thrust his hands in his pockets and strutted away, trying to appear very manly and independent, but nature would not permit him to look like anything but a big, overgrown boy.

Richard Linnell drew his breath again with the same low hiss, and stood watching the retiring figure, after which he followed the boy along the cliff till he saw him reach the pier, where a gruff voice greeted him; and, satisfied that the truth had been spoken, he turned off and went home.

“Thought you wasn’t coming, lad,” said Fisherman Dick. “Here, just you ketch hold o’ yon basket, and let’s get to work.”

Morton seized the basket of bait, and together they walked to the very end of the pier, at one corner of which was a gangway and some steps, down which they went to a platform of open beams, moist with spray, and only about a foot above the water now the tide was high, the promenade forming the ceiling above their heads.

It was very dark, and the damp, salt smell of the weed that hung to the piles was floating around, while the misty spray every now and then moistened their hands and faces. On all sides huge square wooden piles rose up, looking grim and strange in the gloom, and before them the star-spangled sea heaved and sank, and heaved and sighed and whispered in amongst the woodwork, every now and then seeming to give a hungry smack as if the waves were the lips of some monstrous mouth, trying to seize upon the two fishers for its prey.

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Dick Miggles: “Sea’s just right, and the fish’ll bite like anything. We ought to get ten shillings’ worth to-night. There you are; go ahead.”

Dick had been busy unwinding a line, whose hooks he had already baited; and then, for the next quarter of an hour they were busy catching and hauling in whiting and large dabs, and every now and then a small conger, the basket filling rapidly.

Then, all at once, the fish ceased biting, and they sat waiting and feeling the lines, trying to detect a touch.

“Some one coming,” said Dick suddenly, in a low whisper. “What’s he want to-night?”

“Sh!” whispered back Morton. “Don’t speak, or I shall be found out.”

“Right,” answered Dick in the same low tone; and as they sat there in the darkness with the water lapping just beneath them, and a wave coming in among the piles every now and then with a hiss and a splash, they could hear the slow, firm tread of some one coming down the pier, right to the end, to stand there as if listening, quite still above their heads.

All at once the night-breeze wafted to them the scent of a good cigar, and they knew that whoever it was must be smoking.

At the same moment, Morton felt a tug at his line, and he knew a fish had hooked itself.

It was all he could do to keep from dragging it in; but he was, in spite of his boasting, afraid of his nocturnal expedition coming to his father’s ears, and he remained still.

Fisherman Dick had moved so silently that Morton had not heard him; but all at once the planks overhead seemed veined with light, and the figure of the fisherman could be seen dimly, with his face close up to a hole in the planking. The light died out as quickly as it shone, and the odour of tobacco diffused itself again, while the man overhead began to walk slowly up and down.

Tug-tug-tug! How that fish – a big one, too – did pull! But Morton resisted the temptation, and waited, till all at once it seemed to him that the smoker must have heard them, and was about to come down, for he was evidently listening.

Then there was a shuffling of feet, a curious expiration of the breath, and a sort of grunt, followed by utter silence; and then, some fifty yards away, right in front of where Morton sat, there was a faint golden splash in the sea, and the noise of, as it were, a falling stone or piece of wood.

Almost at the same moment Morton noticed that his line had become phosphorescent, and he could see it for some distance down as the fish he had hooked dragged it here and there.

Then there was a sigh overhead as of relief, and the steps were heard again, gradually going back along the pier, and dying slowly away.

Simultaneously, Morton Denville and the fisherman began hauling in their lines, the former listening the while, to make sure that the promenader did not return; and then, as all was silent, their captives were drawn on to the open planking, to break the silence with flapping and beating and tangling the lines.

“What light was that, Dick?” said Morton, as he threw his fish into the basket.

“Dunno, zackly. Some way o’ lighting another cigar.”

“Who was it – could you see?”

“How’s it likely I could see, squintin’ through a hole like that? Some ’un or ’nother stretching his legs, ’cause he ain’t got no work to do, I s’pose.”

“But couldn’t you see his face?”

“See his face? Is it likely? Just you get up and look through that hole. Why, I had to look straight up, then sidewise, and then straight up again, and that bends your sight about so as you couldn’t even do anything with a spyglass.”

“I believe you could see who it was, and won’t tell me.”

“Hear that, now! Why shouldn’t I want to tell? Says you, I’m out on the sly, and nobody mustn’t know I’m here.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Morton shortly.

“Well, lad, not in words you didn’t; but that’s how it seemed to be, so I kep’ as quiet as I could, and whoever it was didn’t hear us.”

“What did he throw into the water?”

“Stone, I s’pose. Some o’ them dandy jacks, as looks as if they couldn’t move in their clothes, once they gets alone, nothing they likes better than throwing stones in the water. If it wasn’t that the waves washes ’em up again, they’d have throwed all Saltinville into the sea years ago.”

Two hours later, after a very successful night’s sport, Morton parted from Fisherman Dick at the shore end of the pier, and ran home, while the owner of the lines and the heavy basket sat down on the lid, and rubbed the back of his head.

“Yes, I did see his face, as plain as I ever see one, but I warn’t going to tell you so, Master Morton, my lad. What did he chuck inter the sea, and what did he chuck it there for?”

Fisherman Dick sat thinking for a few minutes, and shaking his head, before saying aloud:

“No; it didn’t sound like a stone.”

After which he had another think, and then he got up, shouldered his basket, and went homeward, saying:

“I shall have to find out what that there was.”

Volume One – Chapter Fifteen.
Miss Clode’s Library

Miss Clode’s library and fancy bazaar stood facing the sea – so near, indeed, that on stormy days she was occasionally compelled to have the green shutters up to protect the window-panes from the spray and shingle that were driven across the road. But on fine days it was open to the sunshine, and plenty of cane-seated chairs were ranged about the roomy shop.

The back was formed of a glass partition, pretty well covered with books, but not so closely as to hide the whole shop from the occupants of the snug parlour, where little, thin Miss Clode sat one fine morning, like a dried specimen of her niece, Annie Slade, a stout young lady nicknamed Dumpling by the bucks who made the place a sort of social exchange.

The shop was well fitted and carpeted. Glass cases, filled with gaily-dyed wools and silks, were on the counter. Glass cases were behind filled with knick-knacks and fancy goods, papier-maché trays and inkstands bright with mother-of-pearl, and ivory and ebony specimens of the turner’s art. Look where you would, everything was brightly polished, and every speck of dust had been duly hunted out. In fact, Miss Clode’s establishment whispered of prosperity, and suggested that the little eager-eyed maiden lady must be in the circumstances known as comfortable.

Business had not been very brisk that morning, but several customers had called to make purchases or to change books, and two of these latter had made purchases as well. In fact, it was rather curious, but when certain of her clients called, and Miss Clode introduced to their notice some special novelty, they always bought it without further consideration.

“You are such a clever business woman, auntie,” drawled her niece. “I wish I could sell things as fast as you.”

“Perhaps you will some day, my dear.”

“Lady Drelincourt bought that little Tunbridge needle-book for half a guinea, didn’t she, aunt?”

“Yes, my dear,” said Miss Clode, pursing up her thin lips.

“She couldn’t have wanted it, auntie,” drawled the girl. “I don’t believe she ever used a needle in her life.”

“Perhaps not, my dear, but she might want it for a present.”

“Oh, so she might; I never thought of that. Customers!” added the girl sharply, and rose to go into the shop.

“I’ll attend to them, my dear,” said Miss Clode quickly, and she entered the shop to smilingly confront Sir Harry Payne and Sir Matthew Bray.

“Well, Miss Clode, what’s the newest and best book for a man to read?”

“Really, Sir Harry, I am very sorry,” she said. “The coach has not brought anything fresh, but I expect a parcel down some time to-day. Perhaps you’d look in again?”

“Ah, well, I will,” he said. “Come along, Bray.”

“Have you seen these new card-cases, Sir Matthew?” said the little woman, taking half a dozen from a drawer. “They are real russia, and the gilding is of very novel design. Only a guinea, Sir Matthew, and quite new.”

“Ah, yes, very handsome indeed. A guinea, did you say?” he said, turning the handsome leather case over and over.

“Yes, Sir Matthew. May I put it down to your account?”

“Well, ah, yes – I – ah, yes, I’ll take this one.”

“Thank you, Sir Matthew. I’ll wrap it up, please, in silver paper;” and, with deft fingers, the little woman wrapped up the purchase, handed it over with a smile, and the two friends strolled out for Sir Harry to give his friend a light touch in the side with the head of his cane, accompanied by a peculiar smile, which the other refused to see.

“How very anxious Sir Harry seems to be to get that new book, auntie,” drawled Annie, coming into the shop where Miss Clode was busily making an entry on her slate; “that makes twice he’s been here to-day.”

“Yes, my dear, he’s a great reader. But now, Annie, the time has come when I think I may take you into my confidence.”

“La, auntie, do you?”

“I do, and mind this, child: if ever you are foolish or weak, or do anything to betray it, you leave me directly, and that will be a very serious thing.”

Miss Slade’s jaw fell, and her mouth opened widely, as did her eyes.

“Ah, I see you understand, so now come here with me.”

Miss Slade obeyed, and followed her aunt into the middle room at the back, where, by means of a match dipped into a bottle of phosphorus. Miss Clode obtained a light and ignited a little roll of wax taper, and then, as her niece watched her with open eyes as they sat at the table, the lady took a small letter from her pocket and laid it with its sealed side uppermost on the table.

“Why, I saw Sir Harry Payne give you that letter this morning, auntie, when he came first.”

“Oh, you saw that, did you?” said Miss Clode.

“Yes, auntie, and I thought first he had given it to you to post, and then as you didn’t send me with it, I wondered why he had written to you.”

“He did give it to me to post, my dear,” said Miss Clode with a curious smile, “and before I post it I am bound to see that he has not written anything that is not good for the la – person it is for.”

“Oh, yes, auntie, I see,” said Miss Slade, resting her fat cheeks on her fat fingers, and watching attentively as her aunt took out a seal from a tin box, one that looked as if it were made of putty, and compared it with the sealing-wax on the letter.

This being satisfactory, she cleverly held the wax to the little taper till it began to bubble and boil, when it parted easily, the paper being drawn open and only some silky threads of wax securing it, these being at once brushed aside.

“Oh, you have got it open lovely, auntie,” said the girl.

“Yes, my dear; and now I am going to read it,” said Miss Clode, suiting the deed to the word, skimming through the note rapidly, and then refolding it.

“Oh, I say, auntie, what does he say?” said the girl with her eyes sparkling. “Is it about love?”

“Don’t ask questions, and you will not get strange answers,” said Miss Clode austerely, as she deftly melted the wax once more, and applied the well-made bread seal, after which there was nothing to show that the letter had been opened. “I see, though, that it was quite time I did trust you, my dear, and I hope I shall have no cause to repent.”

Just then a customer entered the shop, and again Miss Clode went to attend.

“I know it was a love-letter,” said Annie quickly; “and it was Sir Harry Payne wrote it. I wonder who it was to. I wish he’d make love to me.”

Miss Clode came back directly with a volume of poems in her hand – a new copy, and looking significantly at her niece she said:

“I’m going to post that letter, my dear. Don’t you touch it, mind.”

As she spoke she thrust the note between the leaves, and then walked into the shop with her niece, and placed the book upon a shelf.

“There, if you behave yourself you shall see who buys those poems; but, once more, never a word to a soul.”

“Oh, no, auntie, never,” said the girl, with her big eyes rolling. “But oh, I say, auntie, isn’t it fun?”

“Isn’t what fun?”

“I know,” giggled the girl; “there was a letter in that card-case you sold. I saw you put it there.”

“Well, well, perhaps there was, my dear. I must oblige customers, and the profits on things are so small, and rents so high. We must live, you see. And now mind this: if Mrs Frank Burnett comes, you call me.”

“Couldn’t I sell her that volume of poems, auntie?” said the girl eagerly.

“No, certainly not; and now look here, miss. Don’t you ever pretend to be simple any more.”

“No, auntie,” said the girl, “I won’t;” and she drew her breath thickly and gave a smack with her lips, as if she were tasting something very nice.

Loungers dropped in, and loungers dropped out, coming for the most part to meet other loungers, and, like the Athenians of old, to ask whether there was anything new. Sometimes Miss Clode was consulted, and when this was the case, her way was soft, deprecating, and diffident. She thought she had heard this; she believed that she had heard that; she would endeavour to find out; or, yes, to be sure, her ladyship was right: it was so, she remembered now. While when not invited to give opinions, she was busy in the extreme over some item connected with her business, and hearing and seeing nothing, with that bended head so intent upon arranging, or booking, or tying up.

There was very little, though, that Miss Clode did not hear, especially when some one of a group said, “Oh, fie!” or “No, really, now!” or “How shocking!” and there was a little burst of giggles.

In due time, just as Miss Clode was instructing her niece in the art of tying up a packet of wools, so that one end was left open and the dealer could see at a glance what colours it contained, Annie’s jaw dropped, and seemed to draw down the lower lids of her eyes, so that they were opened to the fullest extent, for Frank Burnett’s handsome britzka drew up at the door, the steps were rattled down, flip, flop, flap, with a vigorous action that would bring people to the windows to see, and, all sweetness in appearance and odour, like the blossom she was, the MC’s idol stepped daintily rustling down, the very model of all that was naïve and girlish.

“Who’d ever think she was a wife?” said Miss Clode to herself.

“Oh my! isn’t she pretty?” said Annie.

“Go on tying up those packets, and don’t take any notice,” said Miss Clode; and then, with the greatest of deference, wished her visitor good-morning, and begged to know how she was.

“Not very well, Miss Clode: so tired. Society is so exacting. Can you recommend me any book that will distract me a little?”

“Let me see, ma’am,” said Miss Clode, turning her head on one side in a very bird-like way, and bending forward as if she were going to peck a seed off the counter.

“Something that will really take me out of myself.”

“The last romance might be too exciting, ma’am?”

“Do you think it would?”

“Ye-e-e-es. Oh, yes, decidedly so in your case, ma’am,” said Miss Clode, in quite the tone of a female physician. “Poems – soft, dreamy, soothing poems, now, would I think be most suited.”

“Oh, do you think so?” said Mrs Burnett half pettishly.

“Yes, ma’am, I have a volume here, not included in the library, but for sale – ‘Lays of the Heart-strings’ – by a gentleman of quality. I should recommend it strongly.”

“Oh, dear no,” exclaimed the visitor, as Miss Clode took the work from the shelf. “I don’t think a – well, I will look at it,” she said, blushing vividly, as she saw that the book did not thoroughly close in one part. “Perhaps you are right, Miss Clode. I will take it. What is the price?”

“Half a guinea, ma’am, to subscribers, and I will call you a subscriber. Shall I do it up in paper?”

“Yes, by all means. What delightful weather we are having!”

“Delightful, indeed, ma’am,” said Miss Clode, whose face was simply business-like. There was not a nerve-twitch, not a peculiar glance to indicate that she was playing a double part; and it was wonderfully convenient. Visitors both ladies and gentlemen, liked it immensely, and patronised her accordingly, for no Artesian well was ever so deep and dark as Miss Clode, or as silent. She knew absolutely nothing. Mrs Frank Burnett had bought a volume of poems at her establishment, that was all. Anybody might have slipped the note inside. While as to seeking a client’s confidence, or alluding in the mildest way to any little transaction that had taken place for the sake of obtaining further fee or reward, any client would have told you that with the purchase of book, album, card-case, or needle-housewife, every transaction was at an end; and so Miss Clode’s business throve, and Lord Carboro’ called her the Saltinville sphinx.

“Is there any particular news stirring, Miss Clode?”

“Really, no, ma’am,” said that lady, pausing in the act of cutting the twine that confined the book. “A new family has come to the George; and, by the way, I have to send their cards to Mr Denville.”

“Oh, of course, I don’t want to know anything about that,” said Mrs Burnett hastily.

“The officers are talking of getting up a ball before long, and they say that a certain person will be there.”

“Indeed!” said the visitor, flushing.

“Yes, ma’am, I was told so, and – ahem! – here is Lord Carboro’. Half a guinea, ma’am, if you please.”

Surely there was no occasion for a lady to look so flushed in the act of extricating a little gold coin from her purse; but somehow the ordinary sweet ingenuous look would not come back to May Burnett’s face, any more than the coin would consent to come out of the little, long net purse with gold tassels and slides; and the colour deepened as the keen little eyes of the old man settled for a moment on the tied-up book, and then on Miss Clode’s face.

“What an old sphinx it is,” he thought to himself. “The day grows brighter every hour, Mrs Burnett,” he said gallantly. “It has culminated in the sight of you.”

“Your lordship’s compliments are overpowering,” said the lady, with a profound curtsey; and then she secured her book and would have fled, but his lordship insisted upon escorting her to her carriage, hat in hand, and he cursed that new pomade in a way that was silent but not divine, for it lifted one side of his hair as if he were being scalped when he raised his hat.

“Good-morning, good-morning!” he said, as the carriage drove off. “Little wretch,” he muttered as he watched the equipage out of sight, but with his hat on now. “I hate scandal, but if we don’t have a toothsome bit before long over that little woman, I’m no man. It’s vexatious, too,” he said angrily, “doosid vexatious. I don’t like it. So different to the other, and our sweet Christians here will throw dirt at both. Can’t help it; can’t help it. Well, Miss Clode, anything you want to recommend to me?”

“Yes, my lord, I have a very charming little tortoise-shell-covered engagement-book or two. Most elegant and very cheap.”

“I don’t want cheap things, my dear little woman. Let me see, let me see. Oh, yes, very nice indeed,” he said, opening the case, and letting a scented note drop out on the counter. “Same make, I see, as the cigar-case I bought last week.”

“No, my lord, it is French.”

“No, no – no, no; don’t tell me – English, English. People have stuck their advertisement in. Send it back to ’em. Do for some one else.”

“Then your lordship does not like the case?”

“My dear little woman, but I do, doosidly, but don’t offer me any more with that person’s circular inside. There, there, there; take the price out of that five-pound note. Two guineas? And very cheap too. Doosid pretty little piece of art, Miss Clode. Doosid pretty little piece of art.”

“Wouldn’t he have old Mrs Dean’s pink note, auntie?” said Annie, as soon as his lordship had gone.

“My dear child, this will never do. You see and hear far too much.”

“Please auntie, I can’t help it,” drawled the girl. “I shouldn’t speak like that to anyone else.”

“Ah, well, I suppose not; and I have done right, I see. No; he would not have the pink note. This is the second he has refused. Old Mrs Dean will be furious, but she must have known that it would not last long.”

“I know why it is,” said Annie eagerly. “I know, auntie.”

“You know, child?”

“Yes, auntie; old Lord – ”

“Hush! don’t call people old.”

“Lord Carboro’ has taken a fancy to some one else.”

“Well, perhaps so,” said Miss Clode, tapping her niece’s fat cheek, and smiling. “People do take fancies, even when they are growing older,” she added with a sigh. “Well, he hasn’t taken a fancy to you.”

“Ugh! Oh, gracious, auntie, don’t,” said the girl with a shudder. “He’s such a horrid old man. I can’t think how it was that beautiful Miss Cora Dean could like him.”

“I can,” said Miss Clode shortly. “Now go and see about the dinner, and don’t talk so much.”

Volume One – Chapter Sixteen.
Mrs Dean’s Drive

May Burnett, with her little palpitating heart full of trouble, pretty butterfly of fashion that she was, was flitting through the sunshine one afternoon for the second time to confide her troublesome secret to her sister and obtain her help, but her heart failed her again. The right road was so steep and hard, so she turned down the wrong one once more, laughed at Claire, and left her with saddened face, as in response to the again-repeated question, “Why did you come?” she replied:

“Oh, I don’t know. Just to try and make people forget what a horrible house this has been. I almost wonder, though, that I dare to call.”

She gave her sister a childlike kiss, and away she went full sail, and with no more ballast than she possessed two years before, at the time she was so severely taken to task for flirting with Louis Gravani, when the handsome young artist painted her portrait and that of her father, hers to hang in the drawing-room, that of the Master of the Ceremonies in the ante-room at the Assembly Rooms.

Claire went to the window to gaze down over the flowers in the balcony at her sister, as she stepped lightly into her carriage, just as manly, handsome Richard Linnell came by on the other side, to raise his hat gravely to each of the sisters in turn, with the effect of making Claire shrink back more into the room, so that she only heard the door of the britzka banged to, and the horses start off, while Richard Linnell went on with bended head and knitted brows, thinking of the part he had taken in the serenade on that terrible night.

“Goose!” said May Burnett to herself angrily, as she ordered the footman to go to Miss Clode’s. “I believe she’d be ready to throw herself away on that penniless fellow. I haven’t patience with her, and – ”

Here she had to bend to a couple of ladies with a most gracious smile. A few yards further and she encountered Lord Carboro’, whose hat was carefully raised to her, and on turning the bend where the cliff curved off to the north, she came suddenly upon a handsome pony carriage, driven by Cora Dean in a dazzling new costume of creamy silk and lace, while her mother leaned back in ruby satin, with her eyes half-closed, a small groom behind, seated upon a very tiny perch, having his arms closely folded, and his hat cocked at a wonderful angle.

The driver of the high-stepping pair of ponies stared hard at May Burnett, while that lady leaned back languidly, and quite ignored the presence of the handsome actress.

“Little upstart!” muttered Cora, as she gave her ponies a sharp cut, making them tear along. “I’m not good enough for her to even see; but maybe smuts will fall on the whitest snow. Who knows, my pretty baby madam? Get on with you then!”

Whish-swish, and the ponies sent the chalky dust flying as they tore along.

“Now, lookye here, Betsy, once for all,” said Mrs Dean angrily; “if you are going to drive like that, I stay at home. I like my bones, though they do ache sometimes, and I’m not going to have them broke to please you.”

Cora frowned, and softly took up the second rein with the effect of checking the ponies’ rattling gallop just as heads were being turned and gentlemen on horseback were starting off in pursuit.

“I ain’t easily frightened, Betsy, you know,” said Mrs Dean, panting. “Speaking as a woman as has faced a whole company in the bad days on treasury night, when there’s been nothing in the cash-box, and your poor father off his head, I say I ain’t easily frightened.”

“Now, mother – I mean mamma – how are we to get into society if you will refer so constantly to those wretched old days?”

“They weren’t wretched old days, my dear, and I was a deal happier then than I am now. But never mind; we’ve got our tickets. I knew old Denville would get ’em, and my Betsy’ll startle some of ’em at the ball, I know. Hold ’em in tighter, my dear, do.”

“Don’t be so foolishly nervous, mother. I have them well in hand.”

“But why does that one keep laying down its ears and squeaking, and trying to bite t’other one?”

“Play,” said Cora shortly.

“Then I wish he’d play in the stable, and behave himself when he comes out on the cliff. My word, look at that old Drelincourt, Bet – Cora,” said the old woman, giving her daughter a nudge. “Look at the nasty old thing in black. If she’d had any decency, she’d have left the place when her old sister was killed, instead of being pushed about in her chair like that.”

“But she has a house here of her own,” said Cora shortly, as she guided her ponies in and out among the fashionable equipages, not one of whose lady occupants noticed her.

“Look at ’em,” whispered Mrs Dean, nudging her daughter again. “They’re a-busting with envy, but they shall be civil to you yet. I did grudge the money for the turn out, and I told Ashley it was a swindle, but they do show off, and I’m glad I bought ’em. Look at the fine madams in that broosh; they’re as envious as can be. Hit’m up, Cora, and make ’em go. I should like to see anybody else’s gal with such a turn-out.”

Too showy, and with a suspicion of the circus in the style of the harness and the colours of the rosettes; but Cora Dean’s pony carriage, driven as it was in masterly style, created no little sensation in Saltinville; and if, in addition to the salutes of the gentlemen, which she acknowledged very superciliously, only one lady would have bowed in recognition, Cora Dean would have enjoyed her drive, and probably have gone more slowly.

As it was, in obedience to her mother’s nudges and admonitions to “Hit ’m up again,” she gave the ponies flick after flick with the whip, and increased the restiveness consequent upon plenty of spirit and too much corn.

It was a risky drive with restive beasts along that cliff with so slight a railing, and the archives of the town told how one Sir Rumble Thornton had gone over with his curricle and pair on to the shingle below, to be killed with his horses. But Cora Dean and her mother thought only of making a show, and the well-bred little ponies seemed to be kept thoroughly in hand by their mistress, though they were fretting and champing their bits and sending flakes of foam all over their satin coats.

“I’m getting used to it now, Cora, my dear,” panted the old woman. “I don’t feel so squirmy inside, and as if I should be obliged to go home for a drop of brandy. Humph! I wish you wouldn’t bow to him.”

“Why not? He’s our neighbour,” said Cora tartly, as Richard Linnell took off his hat. “He’s the most thorough gentleman in this town.”

“P’raps he is, but I don’t think anything of such gentlemen as he is – now Betsy, do a’ done. Don’t drive like that. I was getting used to it, but now you’ve made my pore ’art fly up into my mouth.”

A sharp snatch at the reins had made the ponies rear up, and Richard Linnell, who was looking after them, started to go to Cora’s help, but a cut of the whip sent the two ponies on again, and the carriage spun along, past the wide opening to the pier, down which Richard Linnell turned to think out how he might get over the prejudice he knew that Mr Denville had against him, and to wonder why Claire had grown so cold and strange.

“I am getting well used to it now, Betsy,” said Mrs Dean, as they drove right along the London road for a mile or two; “but, I say, hadn’t you better turn their heads now? Let’s get back on the cliff, where they can see us. I hate these fields and hedges. Let’s go back by the other road, down by Lord Carboro’s house, and through the street down to the pier.”

“Very well,” said Cora shortly; and she turned the ponies, and took the upper road.

Now, it so happened that after a short promenade Lord Carboro’ had found out that it was going to rain, by a double barometer which he carried in his boots.

“Confound these corns!” he grumbled. “Ah, Barclay,” he cried to a thick-set man whom he met at that moment, “collecting your dues? It’s going to rain.”

“Yes, my lord. My corns shoot horribly.”

“So do mine; doosid bad. I’m going to get the carriage and have a drive. Can’t walk.”

He nodded and went back to his handsome house and grounds, contenting himself with sitting down in the lodge portico while the gardener’s wife ordered the carriage to be got ready.

“It isn’t handsome, but it suits me,” his lordship used to say, “and it’s comfortable. If I can’t have things as I like with my money, and at my time of life, why it’s doosid strange.”

So he waited till a groom brought the carriage down the drive, and then looked at it as it came.

“Don’t do to go wooing in,” he said, with a chuckle, as he got in and took the reins; and certainly it did not look like the chariot of love, for it was a little, low basket carriage, big enough to hold one, and shaped very much like a bath-chair. It was drawn by a very large, grey, well-clipped donkey with enormous ears, quite an aristocrat of his race, with his well-filled skin and carefully blackened harness.

“Thankye, John. Thankye, Mrs Roberts,” said his lordship, as he shook the reins. “Go on, Balaam.”

Balaam went deliberately on, and just as they were going out of the great iron gates, and his lordship was indulging in a pinch of snuff, there was the rattle of wheels to his right, and Cora Dean came along with her ponies at a smart trot, her mother looking like an over-blown peony by her side.

“Juno, by Jove!” said his lordship, preparing to raise his hat.

But just then – it was a matter of moments – Balaam stood stock still, drew his great flap ears forward and pointed them at the ponies, and staring hard, lifted his tail, and, showing his teeth, uttered with outstretched neck a most discordant roaring —Hee-haw – Hee-haw!

Cora’s ponies stopped short, trembling and snorting. Then, with a jerk that threatened to snap the harness, and as if moved by the same impulse, they plunged forward and tore down the road that, a hundred yards further on, became busy street, and went down at a sharp angle right for the pier.

“Betsy!” shouted Mrs Dean.

Cora sat firm as a rock, and caught up the second rein to pull heavily on the curb, when —snap! – the rein parted at the buckle, and with only the regular snaffle rein to check the headlong gallop, the driver dragged in vain.

The road became street almost like a flash; the street with its busy shops seemed to rush by the carriage; a bath-chair at a shop door, fortunately empty, was caught, in spite of Cora’s efforts to guide the ponies, and smashed to atoms, the flying pieces and the noise maddening the ponies in their headlong race.

It was a steep descent, too, and with such bits even a man’s arm could not have restrained the fiery little animals as they tore on straight for the sea.

“By Jove!” panted Lord Carboro’, jumping out of his little carriage, and, forgetful of all infirmities, he began to run; “they’ll be over the cliff. No, by all that’s horrible, they’ll go right down the pier!”

Volume One – Chapter Seventeen.
Miss Dean’s Ponies

Richard Linnell was very blind as he walked down the pier, stopping here and there to lay his hand upon the slight rail, and watch the changing colours on the sea, which was here one dazzling sheen of silver, there stained with shade after shade of glorious blue, borrowed from the sky, which was as smiling now as it was tearful but a few days back, when it was clouded over with gloom.

Then he gazed wistfully at a mackerel boat that could not get in for want of wind, and lay with its mast describing arcs on the ether, while its brown sails kept filling out and flapping, and then hanging empty from the spars.

It was a glorious day; one that should have filled all young and buoyant hearts with hope, but Richard Linnell’s was not buoyant, for it felt heavy as lead.

He told himself that he loved Claire Denville truly a man could love; and time back she had been ready to respond to his bows; her eyes, too, had seemed to look brightly upon him; but since that dreadful night when he had been deluded into making one of the half-tipsy party gathered beneath her window, and had played that serenade, all had been changed.

It was horrible! Such a night as that, when, judging from what he could glean, the agony and trouble of father and daughter must have been unbearable. And yet he had been there like some contemptible street musician playing beneath her window, and she must know it was he.

That white hand that opened the window and waved them away was not hers, though, but old Denville’s, and that was the only relief he found.

He was very blind, or he would have seen more than one pair of eyes brighten as he sauntered down the pier, and more than one fan flutter as he drew near, and its owner prepare to return his bow while he passed on with his eyes mentally closed.

He was very blind, for he did not see one of the attractive ladies, nor one of those who tried to be attractive as he dawdled on, thinking of the face that appeared, somehow, among the flowers at Claire Denville’s window; then of pretty little blossom-like May Burnett, who people said was so light and frivolous.

Then he asked himself why he was frittering away his life in Saltinville with his father instead of taking to some manly career, and making for himself a name.

“Because I’m chained,” he said, half aloud, as he returned a couple of salutes from Sir Harry Payne and Sir Matthew Bray – rather coldly given, condescending salutations that brought a curl of contempt to his lip.

These gentlemen were near the end of the pier, and he passed them, and went on to look out to sea on the other side, where a swarthy-looking man was wading nearly to his arm-pits, and pushing a pole before him, while a creel hung upon his back.

“I tell you what,” said a loud voice, “let’s go back now, Josiah, and wait till he comes ashore, and then you can buy a pint o’ the live s’rimps, and I’ll see them boiled myself.”

“No, no. Here’s Major Rockley,” said the speaker’s companion, Josiah Barclay, twitching his heavy brows. “He wants to see me about some money. Why he looks as if he was going to buy shrimps himself. How do, Mr Linnell!”

Richard bowed to the thick-set busy-looking man, and to his pleasant-faced plump lady, who smiled at him in turn, and then passed on, walking back and passing the Major, who did not see him, but watched the fisherman as he lifted his net, picked out the shrimps, shook it, and plunged it in again to wade on through the calm water, and pushing it before him as he went.

There were other looks directed at the handsome young fellow, who seemed so unconscious, and so great a contrast to the bucks and beaux who were waving clouded canes, taking snuff from gold boxes, and standing in groups in studied attitudes.

Even Lady Drelincourt in her deep mourning, and with a precaution taken against any further mishap to her pet, in the shape of a delicately thin plated chain, smiled as Richard Linnell drew near, and waited for an admiring glance and a bow, and when they did not come, said “Boor!” half audibly and closed her fan with a snap.

“Beg pardon, m’lady,” said the tall footman.

“Turn the chair and go back.”

The tall footman in black, with the great plaited worsted aiguillettes looped so gracefully up to the buttons on his breast, did not turn the chair, but turned round and stared with parted lips and a look of bewildered horror towards the shore end of the pier, from whence came all at once a rushing sound, shrieks, cries, and then the rapid beating of horses’ feet, sounding hollow upon the boards, and the whirr of wheels.

“Take care!”

“Run!”

“Keep to the side!”

“No. Get to the end.”

There was a rush and confusion. Ladies shrieked and fainted. Gentlemen ran to their help, or ran to their own help to get out of the way. Sir Harry Payne and his friend climbed over the railing and stood outside on the edge of the pier, holding on to the bar to avoid a fall into the water. Major Rockley did likewise on the other side, and all the while the rush, the trampling, and the hollow sound increased.

It was only a matter of moments. Cora Dean’s handsome ponies had not gone right over the cliff; but in response to a desperate tug at the reins given by their driver, had swerved a little and dashed through the pier gateway, and then the loungers saw the beautiful woman, with her lips compressed, sitting upright, pulling at the reins with both hands, while her mother in her rich satin dress crouched down with her eyes shut and her full florid face horribly mottled with white.

It was a case of sauve qui peut for the most part, as the frantic ponies, growing more frightened by the shouts and cries and the hollow beating of their hoofs, tore on to what seemed to be certain death.

“Here, old girl, quick, down here!” cried Barclay, as he saw the coming danger; and he thrust his trembling wife into one of the embayments at the side of the pier, where there was a shelter for the look-out men and the materials for trimming the pier-lights were kept. “Bravo! bravo, lad!” he cried hoarsely, as he saw Richard Linnell dash forward, and, at the imminent peril of his life, snatch at the bearing rein of one of the ponies, catch hold and hang to it, as the force with which the animals were galloping on took him off his legs.

It was a score of yards from Barclay, who was going to his aid when the rein broke, and Richard Linnell fell and rolled over and over to strike against a group of shrieking women clinging to the side railings. The ponies tore on past Barclay, whose well-meant efforts to check them were vain, and before the danger could be thoroughly realised Cora Dean’s little steeds had blindly rushed at the rotting railings at the end of the pier, and gone through them. There was a hoarse, wild shriek from half a hundred voices, a crash, a plunge, and ponies, carriage, and the occupants were in the sea.

“A boat!”

“The life-buoy!”

“Ropes here, quick.”

“Help! – help!”

Cries; the rush of a crowd to the end of the pier.

A very Babel of confusion, in the midst of which a man was seen to plunge off the end of the pier and swim towards where Cora Dean could be seen clinging to the broad splashboard of the carriage, drawn through the water, while, after rising from their plunge, the ponies swam together for a few moments, and then began to snort and plunge, and were rapidly drowning each other.

“Oh, horrid, horrid, horrid!” cried a woman’s voice. “Help! help! Josiah, come back! He’ll be drowned!”

For Josiah Barclay had seized a life-buoy, and throwing off his coat, boldly plunged in after the first man had set an example.

“A good job if he is,” muttered Sir Matthew Bray – a kindly wish echoed by several lookers-on who thought of certain slips of paper (stamped) that the money-lender had in his cash-box at home.

But Josiah Barclay did not find a fair amount of stoutness interfere with his floating powers, as he held on to the life-buoy with one hand, swimming with the other towards what looked like a patch of red in the sea, surrounding a white face; and a roar of cheers rose from the crowd who were watching him as he reached Mrs Dean, who had rolled from the carriage, and now gripped the life-buoy as it was pushed towards her, and fainted away.

But the majority were watching the daring man who was striving after the ponies, which were now about fifty yards from the pier, and instead of swimming away, pawing the water frantically, so that the end of the accident seemed near.

Boats were putting off from the shore, but it would be long enough before they could do any good. The chances were that the end would have come before they reached the spot, and Richard Linnell was now within half a dozen yards.

“Let go,” he shouted to Cora. “Try and throw yourself out this side, and I’ll get you ashore.”

She only turned a dazed, despairing look in his direction, too much paralysed by the horror of her situation to even grasp his meaning.

“All right, Master Linnell, sir,” growled a deep voice. “Take it coolly, and we’ll do it.”

Linnell glanced aside, and saw that the swarthy fisherman who had been shrimping was not a couple of yards behind him.

“Look ye here, sir. Let the lady be. I’ll go round t’other side. You go this. Mind they don’t kick you. Take care. Wo-ho, my pretties; wo-ho, my lads,” he cried to the ponies, as, perfectly at his ease in the water, he swam past their heads, well clear of their beating and pawing hoofs, and got to the other side.

In cases of emergency, whether the order be right or wrong, one that is given by a firm, cool man is generally obeyed, and it was so here, for Linnell took a stroke or two forward towards the off-side pony, leaving Cora clinging to the front of the little carriage.

“Wo-ho, my beauties. Steady, boys,” cried the big fisherman soothingly.

“Woa, lad, woa, then,” cried Linnell, in imitation of his companion.

The ponies, the moment before snorting and plunging desperately, seemed to gather encouragement from the voices, and ceasing their frantic efforts, allowed themselves to sink lower in the water, let their bits be seized, and with outstretched necks, and nostrils just clear of the water, began to swim steadily and well.

“That’s it, lads, steady it is!” cried the fisherman. “Lay out well clear of ’em, Master Linnell, sir. Mind they don’t kick you. I’ll steer ’em, and we shall do it. You hold on, mum; it’s all right.”

Cora’s head and shoulders were above the water and the ponies were swimming well now, and obeying the pressure of the fisherman’s hand, though they needed little guidance now they were making steadily for the shore.

“I thought they’d do it, Master Linnell, sir. Good boys, then. Good lads. Pity to let ’em drown,” said the fisherman coolly.

“Right,” cried Linnell, easing the pony on his side by swimming with one hand. “Keep still, Miss Dean. We shall soon be ashore. There’s no danger now. Yes, there is,” he muttered. “Those boats.”

Cora turned her eyes upon him with a frightened look, but she was growing more calm, though she could not speak, and the ponies kept on snorting loudly as they swam on.

“Keep quiet, will you, you fools!” grumbled Dick Miggles, as bursts of cheers kept rising from the pier, answered by a gathering crowd on the beach about where they were expected to land, while the cliff was now lined with people who had heard of the accident on the pier.

“Here! hoy!” roared Dick Miggles, who had grasped the danger. “Wo-ho, my boys, I’m with you. It’s all right.”

“Ahoy!” came from the nearest boat, whose occupants were rowing with all their might.

“Back with you. D’ye hear! Wo-ho, lads; it’s all right. Back, I say. You’ll frighten the horses again.”

“We’re coming to help you,” came from the boat.

“Go back, curse yer!” roared Dick. “Don’t you see what you’re doing.”

The ponies were getting scared by the shouting, but by dint of patting and soothing words, they were calmed down once more, and the boatmen, in obedience to the orders given, ceased rowing.

“Go back, and bid ’em hold their row,” cried Dick, as he guided the ponies. “We must get in quiet, or the horses’ll go mad again.”

The men rowed back, communicating their orders to the other boats, whose occupants rested on their oars, while, like some sea-queen, Cora was drawn on in her chariot towards the shore, but looking terribly unaccustomed to the mode of procedure, as she still clung to the front of the little carriage.

“Miggles.”

“’Ullo?”

“Can you manage them alone? The lady.”

“All right, Master Linnell, sir. They’ll go now. We shall be ashore directly.”

He had turned his head and seen what was wrong as Richard Linnell loosed his hold of the pony’s head, letting it swim on, though the frightened beast uttered a snorting neigh and tried to follow him, till its attention was taken up by the soothing words of Dick Miggles, and it struck out afresh for the shore.

Meanwhile Richard had caught Cora Dean as she loosened her grasp of the front of the carriage, for he had seen that something was coming as her countenance changed and her eyes half-closed.

It was an easy task, for he had only to check her as she was floating out of the carriage, and take hold of the front with his right hand to let himself be drawn ashore.

She opened her eyes again with a start, as if she were making an effort to master her emotion, and they rested on Linnell’s as he held her tightly to his breast. Then she shivered and clung to him, and the next minute the ponies’ hoofs touched the shingly bottom, and people began to realise how it was that the carriage had not sunk in the deep water and dragged the ponies down.

It was plain enough. There was nothing but the slight body with its seats, which had been torn from springs, axle-trees, and wheels, giving it more than ever the aspect of a chariot drawn by sea-horses through the waves.

The ponies were for making a fresh dash as soon as they felt the yielding shingle beneath their hoofs, but a dozen willing hands were at their heads; the remains of the carriage were drawn up the beach, and the traces were loosened and twisted up, while Cora was borne by a couple of gentlemen to one of several carriages offered to bear her home.

As for Linnell, he was surrounded by an excited crowd of people eager to shake hands with him, but none of whom could answer his questions about Mrs Dean.

“Mrs Dean?” said a wet, thick-set man, elbowing his way through. “All right; sent home in Lord Carboro’s donkey-carriage. Mr Linnell, sir, your hand, sir. God bless you, sir, for a brave gentleman! Nice pair of wet ones, aren’t we?”

“Oh, never mind, Mr Barclay,” cried Linnell, shaking hands. “I’m only too thankful that we have got them safe ashore.”

“With no more harm done than to give the coachbuilder a job, eh? Ha, ha!”

“Three cheers for ’em!” shouted a voice; and they were heartily given.

“And three more for Fisherman Dick!” cried Linnell.

“Don’t, Master Richard, sir – please don’t!” cried the swarthy fisherman modestly.

“He did more than I did.”

“No, no, Master Richard, sir,” protested Dick, as the cheers were heartily given; and then a horrible thought smote Linnell:

“The boy – Mrs Dean’s little groom! Where is he?”

“Oh, I’m all right, sir,” cried a shrill voice. “When I see as missus couldn’t stop the ponies, I dropped down off my seat on to the pier.”

“Hurray! Well done, youngster!” cried first one and then another,

“Look here, Mr Richard,” cried Barclay; “my place is nearest; come there, and send for some dry clothes.”

“No, no; I’ll get back,” said Linnell. “Thanks all the same. Let me pass, please;” and as Cora Dean’s ponies were led off to their stable, and Barclay went towards where plump Mrs Barclay was signalling him on the cliff, the young man hurried off homeward, followed by bursts of cheers, and having hard work to escape from the many idlers who were eager to shake his hand.

Volume One – Chapter Eighteen.
Unreasonable Children

“Claire, Claire! Quick, Claire!”

Pale and very anxious of aspect, Claire hurried down from her room, to find her father, in his elaborate costume, standing in an attitude before one of the mirrors, not heeding her, so wrapped was he in his thoughts.

Her brow contracted, and she looked at him wonderingly, asking herself was his memory going, or was something more terrible than the loss of memory coming on? for he appeared to have forgotten that which was an agony to her, night and day.

Something had happened to please him, she knew, for his countenance at such times was easy to read; but all the same, his worn aspect was pitiable, and it was plain that beneath the mask he wore the terrible care was working its way.

“What is it, papa?” she said, in the calm, sad way which had become habitual with her.

“What is it?” he cried, in his mincing, artificial style.

“Success! Assured fortune! The wretched fribbles who have been disposed to slight me and refuse my offices will now be at my feet. A brilliant match for you, and a high position in the world of fashion.”

“Father!”

“Hush, child, and listen. The position of both of you is assured; a peaceful and more prosperous fortune for me! The few trifles I ask for: my snuff, a glass of port – one only – my cutlet, a suit of clothes when I desire a change, without an insulting reference to an old bill, the deference of tradespeople, freedom from debt. Claire, at last, at last!”

“Oh, papa!” cried the girl, with the tears welling over and dropping slowly from her beautiful eyes, while her sweet mouth seemed all a-tremble, and her agitated hands were stretched out to clasp the old man’s arm.

But he waved her off.

“Don’t, don’t, Claire,” he said quickly. “See there. I do detest to have my coat spotted. It is so foolish and weak.”

Claire smiled – a sweet, sad smile – as she drew a clean cambric handkerchief from the pocket of her apron, shook it out, showing a long slit and a series of careful darns, removed the pearly drop before it had time to soak the cloth, and exclaimed:

“Then the town has conferred a salary upon you?”

“Pah! As if I would condescend to take it, girl!” cried the old man, drawing himself up more stiffly.

“A legacy?”

The Master of the Ceremonies shook his head.

“A commission for Morton?”

“No, no, no.”

“Then – ”

The old man waved his cane with a graceful flourish, placed it in the hand that held his snuff-box, opened the latter, and, after tapping it, took a pinch, as if it were a matter calling forth long study of deportment to perform, closed the box with a loud snap, and said, in a haughty, affected tone:

“Half an hour since, on a well-filled parade, I encountered His Royal Highness and a group of friends.”

He paused, and took out a silk handkerchief, embroidered here and there with purple flowers by his child.

“And then – ”

There was a flourish of the handkerchief, and the flicking away of imaginary specks from the tightly-buttoned coat.

“His Royal Highness – ”

“Yes, papa,” said Claire piteously, as he looked at her as if asking her attention.

At that moment Morton entered, looking weary and discontented; but, seeing his father’s peculiar look, he checked the words he was about to say, and watched his face as he gave his handkerchief another flourish, replaced it, and took his cane from his left hand to twirl it gracefully.

“His Royal Highness shook hands with me.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Morton, while Claire’s brow grew more rugged.

“Shook hands with you, father?” said Morton eagerly.

“And asked me for a pinch of snuff.”

There was a dead silence in the room as Claire clasped her hands together and trembled, and seemed about to speak, but dared not; while Morton screwed up his mouth to whistle, but refrained, looking half contemptuously at his father the while.

“Fortune has thrown a magnificent chance in our way.”

“I say, dad, what do you mean with your magnificent chance?”

“I have hopes, too, for Claire. I cannot say much yet, but I have great hopes,” he continued, ignoring the question of his son.

“Oh, papa!”

“Yes, my child, I have. I can say no more now, but I have hopes.”

Claire’s careworn face grew more cloudy as she uttered a low sigh.

“But look here, father; what do you mean,” repeated Morton, “by your magnificent chance?”

The Master of the Ceremonies coughed behind one delicate hand, brushed a few imaginary specks from his sleeve, then took out his snuff-box, and refreshed himself with a pinch in a very elaborate way.

“You are a man now, Morton, and I will speak plainly to you, as I have before now spoken plainly to your sisters. My only hope for the future is to see you both make good marriages.”

“Why, that won’t send you to heaven, father,” said the lad, grinning.

“I mean my – our – earthly future, sir,” said the old man. “This is no time for ribald jest. Remember your duty to me, sir, and follow out my wishes.”

“Oh, very well, father,” said Morton sulkily.

“But, papa dear, you surely do not think of Morton marrying,” said Claire anxiously.

“And why not, madam, pray? Younger men have married before now, even princes and kings, when it was politically necessary, at twelve and fifteen; my memory does not serve me at the moment for names, but let that pass.”

“But have you any fixed ideas upon the subject, papa?”

“My dear Claire! How dense you are! Did I not tell you about Morton’s providential rescue of Lady Drelincourt’s favourite, and of her impassioned admiration of his bravery? She saw him at great disadvantage then; but I am going to arrange with – er – one of the principal tailors, and Morton must now take his place amongst the best dressed bucks on the Parade. With his manly young person, and a few touches in deportment that I can give him, his prospect is sure, I will answer for it.”

“Ha – ha – ha – ha – ha – ha!” roared Morton, bursting out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“Morton!” and the old man turned round fiercely.

“Why, you don’t want me to marry that old female Guy Fawkes, father!”

“Morton! my son! you grieve and pain me. How dare you speak like that of a leader of society – a lady of title, sir – of great wealth. Why, her diamonds are magnificent. I will be plain with you. You have only to play your cards well, and in due course others will be issued – Mr Morton Denville and the Countess of Drelincourt.”

“Why, father, all the fellows would laugh at me.”

“Sir, a man with horses, carriages, servants, a town mansion and country seat, and a large income can laugh at the world.”

“Oh, yes, of course, father; but she’s fifty or sixty, and I’m not twenty.”

“What has that to do with it, sir! How often do men of sixty marry girls of seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen?”

“But she paints, and wears false hair.”

“Matters of which every gentleman, sir, would be profoundly ignorant as regards a lady of title.”

“But, papa dear, surely you are not serious?” said Claire, who had listened with horror painted in every feature.

“I was never more serious in my life, child. Lady Drelincourt is not young, but she is a most amiable woman, with no other weakness than a love for play.”

“And little beasts of dogs,” said Morton contemptuously.

“Of course, because there is a void in her womanly heart. That void, my son, you must try and fill.”

“Oh, nonsense, father!”

“Nonsense! Morton, are you mad? Are you going to throw away a fortune, and a great position in society? Of course, I do not say that such an event will follow, but it is time you began to assert your position. You did well the other day on the pier.”

“Yes,” said Morton with a sneer. “I fished out a dog. Now Dick Linnell did something worth – ”

“Silence, sir! Do not mention his name in my presence, I beg,” said the old man sternly; and he left the house.

“Well, I tell you what it is, Sis,” said Morton, speaking from the window, where he had gone to see his father mince by, “the old dad hasn’t been right since that night. I think he’s going off his head.”

There was no reply, and, turning round, it was to find that he was alone, for Claire, unable to bear the strain longer, had glided from the room.

Volume One – Chapter Nineteen.
Miss Clode’s Hero

No one would have called Miss Clode pretty, “but there were traces,” as the Master of the Ceremonies said. She was thin and middle-aged now, but she had once been a very charming woman; and, though the proprietress of the circulating library at Saltinville, a keen observer would have said that she was a lady.

Richard Linnell entered her shop on the morning after the carriage accident, and a curious flush came into her little thin face. There was a light in her eye that seemed to make the worn, jaded face pleasanter to look upon, and it seemed as if something of the little faded woman’s true nature was peeping out.

She did not look like the little go-between in scores of flirtations and intrigues; but as if the natural love of her nature had come to the surface, from where it generally lay latent, and her eyes seemed to say:

“Ah, if I could have married, and had a son like that.”

It is the fashion, nowadays, for ladies to attempt a strong-minded rôle, and profess to despise the tyrant man; to take to college life and professorship; to cry aloud and shout for woman’s rights and independence; for votes and the entry to the school board, vestry, and the Parliamentary bench; when all the time Nature says in her gentle but inflexible way: “Foolish women; it was not for these things that you were made to tread the earth.”

Study! Yes, nothing is too abstruse, nowadays. The pretty maidens, who used to learn a little French with their music and drawing, now take to Greek and Latin and the higher mathematics, but they cannot stitch like their grandmothers.

“And,” says a strong-minded lady, “are they any worse companions now for men than they were then?”

“Opinions are various, madam.” I used to write that as a text-hand copy in a nicely-ruled book that I used to blot with inky fingers. You, madam, who claim your rights, surely will not deny me mine – to have my own opinion, which I will dare to give, and say:

“Yes; I think they have not improved. Somehow one likes softness and sweetness in a woman, and your classic young ladies are often very sharp and hard.

“If you combat my opinion upon the main idea of women’s purpose here, add this to your study – the aspect of a woman when she is most beautiful.

“And when is that? – in her ball dress? – in her wedding costume? – when she first says ‘yes?’

“Oh, no; none of these, but when she is alone with the child she loves, and that sweet – well, angelic look of satisfied maternity is on her face, and there is Nature’s own truth stamped indelibly as it has been from the first.

“Men never look like that. They never did, and one may say never will. It is not given to us, madam. Study that look; it is more convincing than all the speeches women ever spoke on woman’s rights.”

Just such a look was upon the face of little thin white-faced Miss Clode, as the frank, manly young fellow strode suddenly into her shop, making her start, change colour, and set down on the counter something she was holding, taking it up again directly with trembling hands.

“Ah, Miss Clode,” he said cheerfully, “here I am again. Is it the weather, or are your strings bad?”

“Do they break so, then?” she said, hurriedly producing a tin canister, which refused to give up its lid; and Richard had to take it, and wrench it off with his strong fingers, when a number of oily rings of transparent catgut flew out on to the glass case.

“How clumsy I am,” he said.

“No,” she said softly; “how strong and manly. How you have altered these last ten years!”

“Well, I suppose so,” he said, smiling down at the little thin, upturned, admiring face. “But you’ll ruin me in strings, Miss Clode.”

“I wish you would not pay for them,” she said plaintively. “I get the very best Roman strings. I send on purpose to a place in Covent Garden, London, and they ought to be good.”

“And so they are,” he said, taking up half a dozen rings on his fingers and examining them to see which were the clearest, smoothest, and most transparent.

“But they break so,” she sighed. “You really must not pay for these.”

“Then I shall not have any,” he said.

She gazed tenderly in his face, and her eyes were very intent as she watched him. Then, coughing slightly, and half turning away, she said gently:

“And your father – is he quite well?”

“Oh yes, thank you. Very well. Well as a man can be who has such a great idle, useless son.”

Miss Clode shook her little curls at him reproachfully, and there was something very tender in her way as she cried, “You should not say that.” Then, in a quiet apologetic manner, she lowered her tone and said:

“You can’t help being so tall and strong and manly, and – and – and – I’m only an old woman, Mr Linnell,” she said, smiling in a deprecating way, “and I’ve known you since you were such a boy, so I shall say it – you won’t be vain – so handsome.”

“Am I?” he said, laughing. “Ah well, handsome is that handsome does, Miss Clode.”

“Exactly,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm and speaking very earnestly, “and I have three – three notes here.”

“For me?” he said, blushing like a woman, and then frowning at his weakness.

“Yes, Mr Linnell, for you.”

“Tear them up, then,” he said sharply. “I don’t want them.”

Miss Clode gave vent to a sigh of relief.

“Or no,” he said firmly. “They were given to you to deliver. Give them to me.”

She passed three triangular notes to him half unwillingly, and he took them, glanced at the handwritings, and then tore them across without opening them.

“No lady worth a second thought would address a man like that,” he said sharply. “Where shall I throw this stuff?”

Miss Clode stooped down and lifted a waste-paper basket from behind the counter, and he threw the scraps in.

“We are old friends, Miss Clode,” he said. “Burn them for me, please, at once. I should not like to be so dishonourable as to disgrace the writers by letting them be seen.”

“People are talking about you so, sir.”

“About me?” he cried.

“Yes, Mr Linnell; they say you behaved like a hero.”

“Absurd!”

“When you swam out to the pony carriage and helped to rescue those – er – ladies.”

“My dear Miss Clode, would not any fisherman on the beach have done the same if he had been near? I wish people would not talk such nonsense.”

“People will talk down here, Mr Linnell. They have so little else to do.”

“More’s the pity,” said Richard pettishly.

“And is – is Mrs Dean quite well again, Mr Linnell?”

“Oh yes,” he said coolly. “She was more frightened than hurt.”

“Does Miss Dean seem any worse, sir? Does she look pale?”

The little woman asked these questions in a hesitating way, her hands busy the while over various objects on her counter.

“Pale – pale?” said Richard, turning over the violin strings and looking to see which were the most clear. “Really, I did not notice, Miss Clode.”

“He would not speak so coolly if this affair had ripened into anything more warm than being on friendly terms,” thought the little woman, and she seemed to breathe more freely.

“I’m afraid I’ve been very rude,” continued the young man. “I ought to have asked after them this morning.”

Miss Clode gave another sigh of relief.

“No one shall see those scraps, Mr Linnell,” she said quietly; and the look of affectionate pride in him seemed to intensify. “It is quite right that a young gentleman like you should have some one to love him, but not in such a way as that.”

“No,” he replied shortly, and the colour came into his cheeks again, making them tingle, so that he stamped his foot and snatched up the violin strings again to go on with his selection. “There, I shall have these four,” he said, forcing a smile, “and if they don’t turn out well I shall patronise your rival, Miss Clode.”

“My rival!” exclaimed the little woman, turning pale. “Oh, I understand. Yes, of course, Mr Linnell. Those four. Let me put them in paper.”

“No, no. I’ll slip them in this little case,” he said, and he laid four shillings on the counter.

“I’d really much rather you did not pay for them,” she protested, and very earnestly too.

“Then I won’t have them,” he said; and, with a sigh, Miss Clode placed the money in her drawer.

“I hope you were not one of the party who serenaded a certain lady on that terrible night of horrors, Mr Linnell,” she said, smiling; and then, noticing quickly the start he gave, “Why, fie! I did not think you thought of such things.”

“Yes; don’t talk about it, I beg,” he exclaimed. “It was by accident. I did not know I was going there.”

“But surely, Mr Linnell, you don’t think – Oh!”

She stood gazing at him with her lips apart.

“Miss Clode,” he said firmly, “I do not confide to people what I think. Good-morning.”

“No, no: stop,” she said earnestly; and he turned, wondering at her tone of voice, and agitation.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Only – only – that I have known you so long, Mr Linnell, I can’t help – humbly, of course – taking a little interest in you – you made me feel so proud just now – when you tore up those foolish women’s letters – and now – ”

“Well, and now?” he said sternly.

“It troubled me – pray don’t be angry with me – it troubled me – to think – of course it was foolish of me, but I should not – should not like to see you – ”

“Well, Miss Clode, pray speak,” for she had stopped again.

“See you make an unworthy choice,” she faltered.

“Miss Clode, this is too much,” he said, flushing angrily, and he turned and left the shop, the little thin pale woman gazing after him wistfully and sighing bitterly as he passed from her sight.

“I’m – I’m very fond of him,” she said as she wiped a few weak tears from her eyes. “Such a brave, upright, noble young fellow, and so gentle one moment, and so full of spirit the next. Dear, dear, dear, what a thing it is! He never wastes money in gambling, and wine and follies. Perhaps he would though, if he were as rich as the rest of them. And he ought to be.”

She wiped her eyes again, and as she did so the woman’s entire aspect changed. For just then Miss Cora Dean was driven by in a hired carriage, her dark eyes flashing, half veiled as they were by the long fringe of lashes, and then she was gone.

“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Clode angrily, “you are a beauty, sitting up there as haughty as a duchess, and your wicked old mother lying back there in her silks and satins and laces, as if all Saltinville belonged to you, instead of being drowned. But mind this, my fine madams, I may be only little Miss Clode at the library, but if you work any harm between you to those I love I’ll have you both bundled neck and crop out of the place, or I’ll know the reason why.

“A wretch!” she said, after a pause. “She’d like nothing better than to tempt him to follow her. But he won’t! No; he’s thinking of that girl Claire, and she is not half good enough for him. I don’t like them and their fine ways. I don’t like Denville with his mincing, idiotic airs. How that man can go about as he does with the stain of that poor old woman’s death at his house astounds me.

“Well, poor wretch,” she said scornfully, “it is his trade, as this miserable go-between business is mine. Perhaps he has fallen as low as I have; but I don’t live as he does – as if he had thousands a year, when they are next door to starving and horribly in debt.

“Ah, well, it is to make a good show in his shop,” she went on, speaking very bitterly – “to dress the window, and sell his girls, and start his boys.

“Nice bargain he has made in selling one. There’s something more about that wretched little empty-headed child than I know, but I shall find out yet. Surely he does not think of that boy and Drelincourt. Oh, it would be too absurd. I’ve not seen the other brother lately. What a family! And for that boy to be taken with – oh, I must stop it if I can.

“Mrs Burnett? Yes, I must know about her. There was a great deal going on with that poor young artist who went away – and died. There was some mystery about that, I know, and – ”

“What are you talking about, auntie? I thought there was some one in the shop, and came to see if you wanted me.”

“Talking? I talking? Oh, nonsense, my dear. I was only thinking aloud.”

“Well, auntie, it was very loud, for I heard you say you would have to find out something about Mrs Burnett.”

“You heard me say that? Nonsense!”

“But I did, auntie; and, do you know, I could tell you something so funny about her.”

“You could, child?” cried the little woman fiercely.

“Yes, and about Mr Richard Linnell, too.”

Miss Clode caught the girl by the arm, and held her tightly while she seemed to be gasping for breath.

“About May Burnett? about Richard Linnell?”

“Yes, auntie, for do you know the other night as I was going down by the lower cliff to see if Fisherman Dick had – ”

“Hush!” cried Miss Clode, pressing her arm so sharply that the girl winced. “Here she is.”

Volume One – Chapter Twenty.
Barclay’s Tenants

“It was scandalous,” Saltinville said, “that she should accept it.”

But she did: a handsome little carriage that came down from Long Acre, and was sent round to the stables, where Cora Dean’s ponies were put up and kept now on a shorter allowance of corn.

The note was a simple one, written in a very large hand that was decidedly shaky. There was a coronet on the top, and its owner, Lord Carboro’, begged Miss Dean’s acceptance of the little gift, with his sorrow that he was the cause of the mishap, and his congratulations that she was not hurt.

This was all very refined and in accordance with etiquette. The postscript looked crotchety.

“P.S. – Tell your people not to give them so much corn.”

Cora did so, and said that she should drive out to show the people of Saltinville that she was no coward.

“Then I’ll go with you, Betsy,” said Mrs Dean, “to show ’em I ain’t, too: and, you mark my words, this’ll be the making of you in society.”

So Cora took her drives as of old, found that she was very much noticed by the gentlemen, very little by the ladies, but waited her time.

The Deans lodged at one of the best houses in the Parade – a large, double-fronted place facing the sea, with spacious balcony and open hall door, and porch ornamented with flowers.

The little groom sprang down and ran to the ponies’ heads as his mistress alighted, and after sweeping her rich dress aside, held out her hand for her mother, who got out of the carriage slowly, and in what was meant for a very stately style, her quick beady eyes having shown her that the windows on either side of the front door were wide open, while her sharp ears and her nose had already given her notice that the lodgers were at home – a low buzzing mellow hum with a wild refrain in high notes, announcing that old Mr Linnell was at work with his violoncello to his son’s violin, and a faint penetrating perfume – or smell, according to taste – suggesting that Colonel Mellersh was indulging in a cigar.

Mrs Dean’s daughter was quite as quick in detecting these signs, and, raising her head and half closing her eyes, she swept gracefully into the house, unconscious of the fact that Richard Linnell drew back a little from the window on one side of the door, and that Colonel Mellersh showed his teeth as he lay back in his chair beside a small table, on which was a dealt-out pack of cards.

“I should like to poison that old woman,” said the Colonel, gathering together the cards.

“I wish Mr Barclay had let the first floor to some one else, Richard,” said a low pleasant voice from the back of the room. P-r-r-rm, Pr-um!

The speaker did not say Pr-r-rm, Pr-um! That sound was produced by an up and down draw of the bow across the fourth string of the old violoncello he held between his legs, letting the neck of the instrument with its pegs fall directly after into the hollow of his arm, as he picked up a cake of amber-hued transparent rosin from the edge of a music stand, and began thoughtfully to rub it up and down the horse-hair of the bow.

The speaker’s was a pleasant handsome face of a man approaching sixty; but though his hair was very grey, he was remarkably well-preserved. His well-cut rather effeminate face showed but few lines, and there was just a tinge of colour in his cheeks, such as good port wine might have produced: but in this case it was a consequence of a calm, peaceful, seaside life. He was evidently slight and tall, but bent, and in his blue eyes there was a dreamy look, while a curious twitch came over his face from time to time as if he suffered pain.

“It would have been better, father,” said Richard Linnell, turning over the leaves of a music-book with his violin bow, “but we can’t pick and choose whom one is to sit next in this world.”

“No, no, we can’t, my son.”

“And I don’t think that we ought to trouble ourselves about our neighbours, so long as they behave themselves decorously here.”

“No, no, my son,” said Linnell, senior, thoughtfully. “There’s a deal of wickedness in this world, but I suppose we mustn’t go about throwing stones.”

“I’m not going to, father, and I’m sure you wouldn’t throw one at a mad dog.”

“Don’t you think I would, Dick?” with a very sweet smile; and the eyes brightened and looked pleased. “Well, perhaps you are right. Poor brute! Why should I add to its agony?”

“So long as it didn’t bite, eh, father?”

“To be sure, Dick; so long as it didn’t bite. I should like to run through that adagio again, Dick, but not if you’re tired, my boy, not if you’re tired.”

“Tired? No!” cried the young man. “I could keep on all day.”

“That’s right. I’m glad I taught you. There’s something so soul-refreshing in a bit of music, especially when you are low-spirited.”

“Which you never are, now.”

“N-no, not often, say not often, say not often. It makes me a little low-spirited though about that woman and her mother, Dick.”

“I don’t see why it should.”

“But it does. Such a noble-looking beautiful creature, and such a hard, vulgar, worldly mother. Ah, Dick, beautiful women are to be pitied.”

“No, no: to be admired,” said Richard, laughing.

“Pitied, my boy, pitied,” said the elder, making curves in the air with his bow, while the fingers of his left hand – long, thin, white, delicate fingers – stopped the strings, as if he were playing the bars of some composition. “Your plain women scout their beautiful sisters, and trample upon them, but it is in ignorance. They don’t know the temptations that assail one who is born to good looks.”

“Why, father, this is quite a homily.”

“Ah, yes, Dick,” he said, laughing. “I ought to have been a preacher, I think, I am always prosing. Poor things – poor things! A lovely face is often a curse.”

“Oh, don’t say that.”

“But I do say it, Dick. It is a curse to that woman upstairs. Never marry a beautiful woman, Dick.”

“But you did, father.”

The old man started violently and changed colour, but recovered himself on the instant.

“Yes, yes. She was very beautiful. And she died, Dick; she died.”

He bent his head over his music, and Richard crossed and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

“I am sorry I spoke so thoughtlessly.”

“Oh, no, my boy; oh, no. It was quite right. She was a very beautiful woman. That miniature does not do her justice. But – but don’t marry a beautiful woman, Dick,” he continued, gazing wistfully into his son’s face. “Now that adagio. It is a favourite bit of mine.”

Richard Linnell looked as if he would have liked to speak, and there was a troubled expression on his face as he thought of Claire Denville’s sweet candid eyes; but he shrank from any avowal. For how dare he, when she had given him but little thought, and – well, she was a beautiful woman, one of those against whom he had been warned.

He looked up and found his father watching him keenly, when both assumed ignorance of any other matter than the adagio movement, the sweet notes of which, produced by the thrilling strings, floated out through the open window, and up and in that of the drawing-room floor overhead, where on a luxurious couch Mrs Dean had thrown herself, while her daughter was slowly pacing the room with the air of a tragedy queen.

“Buzz-buzz; boom-boom! Oh, those horrid fiddlers!” cried Mrs Dean, bouncing up and crossing to the fireplace, where she caught up the poker; but only to have her hand seized by her daughter, who took the poker away, and replaced it in the fender.

“What are you going to do?”

“What am I going to do? Why thump on the floor to make them quiet. Do you suppose I’m going to sit here and be driven mad with their scraping! This isn’t a playhouse!”

“You will do nothing of the sort, mother.”

“Oh, won’t I? Do you think I’m going to pay old Barclay all that money for these rooms, and not have any peace? Pray who are you talking to?”

“To you, mother,” said Cora sternly; and the stoutly-built, brazen-looking virago shrank from her daughter’s fierce gaze. “You must not forget yourself here, among all these respectable people.”

“And pray who’s going to? But I don’t know so much about your respectability. That Colonel, with his queer looks like the devil in ‘Dr Faustus,’ is no better than he should be.”

“The Colonel is a man of the world like the rest,” said Cora coldly.

“Yes, and a nice man of the world, too. And that old Linnell’s living apart from his wife. I know though – ”

“Silence!”

“Now look here, Betsy, I won’t have you say silence to me like that. This here isn’t the stage, and we aren’t playing parts. Just you speak to me proper, madam.”

“Mother, I will not have you speak of Mr Linnell like that.”

“Ho, indeed! And why not, pray? Now, look here, Betsy,” she cried, holding up a warning finger, “I won’t have no nonsense there. I’m not a fool. I know the world. I’ve seen you sighing and looking soft when we’ve passed that young fellow downstairs.”

Cora’s eyes seemed to burn as she fixedly returned her mother’s look.

“Oh, you may stare, madam; but I can see more than you think. Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, making eyes at a poor, penniless fiddler, when you might – ”

“I – I don’t want to quarrel, mother,” cried Cora, “but if you dare to speak to me again like that I’ll not be answerable for myself.”

“There! – there! – there! There’s gratitude!”

“Gratitude? Where should I have been but for Mr Linnell’s bravery, and which of the wretched dressed-up and titled dandies stirred to save me the other day? Richard Linnell is a brave, true-hearted man, too good to marry an actress.”

“She’s mad – she’s mad – she’s mad! There’s grace; and to her mother, too, who’s thought of nothing but getting her on in the world, and brought her forward, so that now she can live on the best of everything, in the handsomest of rooms, and keep her carriage. She flies in her poor mother’s face, and wants to get rid of her, I suppose. Oho – oho – oh!”

Mrs Dean plumped herself down into a gilded chair, and began to howl very softly.

“Don’t be a fool, mother,” said Cora. “I don’t want to quarrel, I tell you, so hold your tongue.”

“After the way I’ve brought her up, too,” howled Mrs Dean – softly, so that the sound should not be heard downstairs.

“After the way you’ve brought me up!” cried Cora fiercely. “Yes; brought me up to be sneered at by every lady I meet – brought me up so that I hate myself, and long sometimes to be one of the poor women we see knitting stockings on the beach.”

“Don’t be a fool, Cory, my handsome, beautiful gal,” cried Mrs Dean, suddenly starting up in her seat, dry-eyed and forgetful of her grief. “How can you be so stupid!”

“Stupid!” cried Cora bitterly. “Is it stupid to wish myself a woman that some true-hearted man could love, instead of looking forward to a life of acting.”

“Oh, how you do go on to be sure. I am surprised at you, Cory. I know what you’d say about the life as them leads as ar’n’t in the profession, but don’t you be a fool, Betsy. ‘Your face is your fortune, sir, she said,’ as the song says; working your fingers to the bone won’t keep you out of the workus. Don’t tell me. I know. I’ve known them as has tried it. Let them work as likes. I like a cutlet and a glass of fine sherry, and some well-made coffee with a noo-laid egg in it, and it ain’t to be got by folks as works their fingers to the bone.”

“And who wants to work their fingers to the bone, mother?” cried Cora, tearing off and flinging down her handsome feathered hat. “In every face I see there’s the look – ‘You’re only one of the stage-players – a rogue and a vagabond.’ I want to lead some life for which I need not blush.”

“As she needn’t blush for! Oh, dear, oh, dear! When her father trod the boards and her mother was born on ’em! What a gal you are, Betsy,” said Mrs Dean, who professed high good humour now, and she rocked herself to and fro, and pressed her hands on her knees as she laughed. “Oh, I say, Cory, you are a one. You will act the injured fine lady in private life, my dear. Why, what a silly thing you are. Look at that hat you’ve chucked down. Didn’t it cost five guineas?”

“Yes, mother, it cost five guineas,” said Cora wearily.

“And you can have whatever you like. Oh, I say, my lovely gal, for you really are, you know, don’t get into these silly fits. It’s such stuff. Why, who knows what may happen? You may be right up atop of the tree yet, and how about yon folks as passes you by now? Why, they’ll all be as civil and friendly as can be. There, there, come and kiss me, ducky, we mustn’t quarrel, must we? I’ve got my eyes open for you, so don’t, don’t, there’s a dear. I know what these things means – don’t go chucking yourself at that young Linnell’s head.”

“Let Mr Linnell alone, mother.”

“But I can’t, my luvvy; I know too well what these things mean. Why, there was Julia Jennings as was at the Lane – it was just afore you was born. There was a dook and a couple of lords, and carridges and horses, and livery suvvants, and as many jewels and dymonds and dresses as she liked to order; and if she didn’t kick ’em all over and marry a shopman, and lived poor ever after. Now do, my luvvy, be advised by me. I know what the world is, and – Gracious goodness! there’s somebody coming up the stairs.”

Mrs Dean threw herself into an attitude meant to be easy, and Cora smoothed her knitted brows as there was a knock at the door, and, after a loud “Come in,” a neat-looking maid entered.

“Mr Barclay, please, ma’am.”

“Show him up, Jane,” said Mrs Dean sharply; and then, as the door closed, “The old rip’s come after his rent. How precious sharp he is.”

“Morning, ladies,” said Barclay. “I heard you were in. Glad to see you are no worse for your accident the other day.”

He glanced at Cora, who bowed rather stiffly, and said “Not at all.”

“I can’t say that, Mr Barclay. I’m a bit shook; but, as I said to my daughter, I wasn’t going to show the white feather, and the ponies go lovely now.”

“Well, I’m glad of that.”

“And I’m so much obliged to you for helping of me. Do you know, it was just like a scene in a piece we – er – saw once at the Lane.”

“Oh, it was nothing ma’am, what I did. Miss Dean, there, she took off all the honours. No cold, I hope.”

Cora did not answer.

“Plucky fellow, young Linnell; but poor, you know, poor.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Mrs Dean maliciously. “I was thinking of sending him ten guineas.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, ma’am,” said Barclay.

“Oh, well, I must say thankye some other way. Very kind of you to call. I said to my daughter, ‘There’s Mr Barclay come for his rent,’ but I was wrong.”

“Not you, ma’am,” said Barclay, whose eyes were rapidly taking in the state of the room. “Business is business, you know,” and he took another glance at the rich furniture and handsome mirrors of the place.

“Oh, it’s all right, Mr Barclay. We’re taking the greatest care of it all, and your rent’s all ready for you, and always will be, of course.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, ma’am. I’ve brought you a little receipt. Saves trouble. Pen and ink not always ready. I keep to my days. So much pleasanter for everybody. Nice rooms, ain’t they?” he added, turning to Cora.

“Yes, Mr Barclay, the rooms are very nice,” she said coldly and thoughtfully.

“Anything the matter with her?” said Mr Barclay, leaning forward to Mrs Dean, and taking the money she handed in exchange for a receipt. “Not in love, is she?”

Mrs Dean and her visitor exchanged glances, and smiled as Cora rose and walked to the window to gaze out at the sea, merely turning her head to bow distantly when the landlord rose to leave.

“I’m a regular scoundrel, ’pon my soul I am,” said Josiah Barclay, rubbing his nose with the edge of a memorandum book; “but they pay very handsomely, and if I were to refuse to let a part of a house that I furnish on purpose for letting, without having the highest moral certificates of character with the people who want the rooms, I’m afraid I should never let them at all. Bah! it’s no business of mine.”

He went back to the front door and knocked, to be shown in directly after to where Colonel Mellersh was sitting back in his chair, having evidently just thrown down the pack of cards.

“Morning, Shylock,” he said, showing his white teeth. “Want your pound of flesh again?”

“No, thank ye, Colonel; rather have the ducats. I say, though, I wish you wouldn’t call me Shylock. I’m not one of the chosen, you know.”

“That I’ll take oath you’re not, Barclay,” said the Colonel, looking at his visitor with a very amused smile. “Your future is thoroughly assured. I’m sorry for you, Barclay, for I don’t think you’re the worst scoundrel that ever breathed.”

“I say, you know, Colonel, this is too bad, you know. Come, come, come.”

“Oh, I always speak plainly to you, Barclay. Let me see; can you let me have a hundred?”

“A hundred, Colonel?” said the other, looking up sharply; “well, yes, I think I can.”

“Ah, well, I don’t want it, Barclay. I know you’d be only too glad to get a good hold of me.”

“Wrong, Colonel, wrong,” said Barclay, chuckling as he glanced at the cards. “You do me too much good for that.”

“Do I?” said the Colonel, smiling in a peculiarly cynical way. “Well, perhaps I do influence your market a little. There,” he said, taking some notes from his little pocket-book, and handing them to his visitor, “now we are free once more.”

“Thankye, Colonel, thankye. You’re a capital tenant. I say, by the way, after all these years, I shouldn’t like to do anything to annoy you: I hope you don’t mind the actors upstairs.”

“No,” said the Colonel, staring at him.

“Because if you did complain, and were not satisfied, I’d make a change, you know.”

“Don’t trouble the women for my sake,” said the Colonel gruffly. “Look here, Barclay, how would you play this hand?”

He took up the cards as he spoke, shuffled them with an easy, graceful movement, the pieces of pasteboard flying rapidly through his hands, before dealing them lightly out upon the table, face upwards, and selecting four thirteens.

“Now,” he said, “look here. Your partner holds two trumps – six, nine; your adversaries right and left have knave and ace; B on your right leads trumps – what would you do?”

Barclay knit his brow and took the Colonel’s hand, gazing from one to the other thoughtfully, and then, without a word, played the hand, the Colonel selecting those cards that would be played by the others till the hand was half through, when Barclay hesitated for a moment, and then seemed to throw away a trick.

“Why did you do that?” said the Colonel sharply.

“Because by losing that I should get the next two.”

“Exactly!” cried the Colonel with his eyes flashing. “That endorses my opinion. Barclay, I shan’t play against you if I can help myself. Money-lending seems to sharpen the wits wonderfully. What a clever old fox you are!”

“One’s obliged to be clever now a days, Colonel, if one wants to get on. Well, I must go. I have to see your neighbours. Rents are very bad to get in.”

“I suppose so,” said the Colonel drily. “Good-morning.”

“I wonder what he makes a year by his play,” said Barclay to himself, as he went back to the front door to knock for the third time. “I believe he plays square, too, but he has a wonderful head, and he’s practising night and day. Now for old Linnell.”

He was shown into Mr Linnell’s room the next minute, to find that he was expected, and that he was gravely and courteously received, and his rent paid, so that there was nothing for him to do but say “Good-morning.” But Josiah Barclay’s conscience was a little uneasy, and in spite of the fact that his tenant was far from being a rich man, there was something in his grave refined manner that won his respect.

“Wish you’d come and see us sometimes, Mr Linnell, just in a friendly way, you know. Chop and glass o’ sherry with Mrs Barclay and me; and you’d join us too, Mr Richard, eh?”

“Thank you, Mr Barclay, no,” said Richard’s father; “I never go out. Richard, my son, here, would, I dare say, accept your invitation.”

“Oh, but can’t you too, eh? Look here, you know, you’re a man who loves bits of old china, and I’ve quite a lot. Really good. Come: when shall it be?”

“Don’t press me now, Mr Barclay,” said his tenant gravely. “Perhaps some other time.”

“Then you’re offended, Mr Linnell. You’re a bit hipped because of the other lodgers, you know.”

“Mr Barclay, I have made no complaints,” said the elder Linnell quietly.

“No, you’ve made no complaints, but you show it in your way, don’t you see. It wasn’t for me to be too strict in my inquiries about people, Mr Linnell. I’m sorry I offended you; but what can I do?”

“Mr Barclay has a perfect right to do what he pleases with his own house,” replied the elder Linnell with dignity. “Good-day.”

“Now I could buy that man up a hundred times over,” grumbled Barclay as he walked away, richer by many pounds than when he started on his journey that morning; “but he always seems to set me down; to look upon me with contempt; and young Richard is as high and mighty as can be. Ah, well, wait a bit! – ‘Can you oblige me with fifty pounds, Mr Barclay, on my note of hand?’ – and then p’raps they’ll be more civil.

“Things ain’t pleasant though, just now. One house made notorious by a murder, and me letting a couple of actresses lodge in another. Well, they pay regular, and I dare say she’ll make a good match somewhere before long; but I’m afraid, when the old lady gets to know they’re stage people, there’ll be a bit of a breeze.”

Volume One – Chapter Twenty One.
Dick Catches Shrimps

There was quite a little crowd at the end of the pier to see Fisherman Dick and some others busy with boathooks searching for the fragments of Cora Dean’s pony carriage, and for want of something better to stare at, the fastening of a rope to first one pair of wheels and then to the other, and the hauling ashore, formed thrilling incidents.

Two rich carriage-cloaks were cast ashore by the tide, miles away, and the rug was found right under the pier, but there were several articles still missing. Cora’s reticule, containing her purse and cut-glass scent-bottle; a little carriage-clock used by Mrs Dean, who was always very particular about the lapse of time, and that lady’s reticule and purse.

It was Fisherman Dick’s special task to search for them when the tide was low, and this he did by going to work as a setter does in a field, quartering the ground and hunting it all over to and fro.

But Fisherman Dick did his work with a shrimping-net, and one day he took home the little carriage-clock and showed it to his wife.

Another day he found Mrs Dean’s reticule, and caught a great many shrimps as well.

Then the tide did not serve for several days, and he had to wait, shaking his head and telling Mrs Miggles he was afraid the sand would have covered everything.

“Then give it up,” said Mrs Miggles, who was trying to sew with the little girl in her lap, but was prevented by the tiny thing making dashes at her broad-brimmed silver spectacles, which it kept taking off and flourishing in one little plump hand.

“Well done, little ’un,” cried the fisherman, grinning. “No, missus, I don’t like being beat.”

He went off, looking very serious, with his net over one shoulder, the creel over the other, and after going to and fro patiently waist and often breast deep, he was successful in finding Cora Dean’s reticule, with its purse and cut-glass bottle; and that night he went home amply rewarded, Cora having been very generous, and Mrs Dean saying several times over that she wouldn’t have believed that a great rough man like that would have been so honest.

“I declare, Betsy, he’s just like a man in a play – the good man who finds the treasure and gives it up. Why, he might have kep’ your puss, and my puss too, and nobody been a bit the wiser.”

That was all that was missing; but every day for a week, during the times that the tide was low, Fisherman Dick was busy, pushing his shrimping-net before him, and stopping every now and then to raise it, throw out the rubbish, and transfer the few shrimps he caught to his creel.

It was not a good place for shrimping – it was too deep; but he kept on with his laborious task, wading out as far as ever he could go; and more than one of his fellow-mermen grinned at his empty creel.

“Why don’t you try the shallows, Dick?” said one of the blue-jerseyed fellows, who seemed to be trying to grow a hump on his back by leaning over the rail at the edge of the cliff.

“’Cause I like to try the deeps,” growled Fisherman Dick.

“Ah, you want to make your fortune too quick, my lad; that’s plain.”

Dick winked, and went home; and the next day he winked, and went out shrimping again, and caught very few, and went home again, put on his dry clothes, and said:

“Give us the babby.”

Mrs Miggles gave him the “babby,” and Dick took her and nursed her, smiling down at the little thing as she climbed up his chest, and tangled her little fingers in his great beard; while Mrs Miggles gave the few shrimps a pick over and a shake up before she consigned the hopping unfortunates to the boiling bath that should turn them from blackish grey to red.

“What is it, old man?” said Mrs Miggles; “sperrits?”

Fisherman Dick shook his head, and began to sing gruffly to the child about a “galliant” maiden who went to sea in search of her true “lovy-er along of a British crew.”

“What is it, then – lace?”

Fisherman Dick shook his head again, and bellowed out the word “crew,” the little child looking at him wonderingly, but not in the least alarmed.

“I never did see such an oyster as you are, old man,” said Mrs Miggles. “You’re the closest chap in the place.”

“Ay!” said Fisherman Dick; and he went on with his song.

He went shrimping off the end of the pier for the delectation of the mincing crowd of promenaders twice more. Lord Carboro’ saw him; so did Major Rockley and Sir Harry Payne. Sir Matthew Bray was too busy dancing attendance upon Lady Drelincourt to pay any attention.

The Master of the Ceremonies saw him too, as he bowed to one, smiled upon a second, and took snuff with a third; and several times, as he watched the fisherman wading out there, he followed his movements attentively, and appeared to be gazing without his mask of artificiality.

The man’s calm, dreamy ways seemed to have an attraction, as if he were wishing that he could change places with him, and lead so simple and peaceful a life. And as he watched him, very far out now, Dick raised his net, emptied it, shook it with his back to the people, and then began to wade in quite another direction, going back no more to the ground off the pier.

The Master of the Ceremonies did not look himself that day, and twice over he found himself on the edge of the pier gazing out to sea, where everything seemed so peaceful and still.

There was a buzz of voices going on about him, but he heard nothing, till all at once a voice, quite familiar to him, exclaimed sharply:

“Well, what is it?”

“Message from Mr Barclay, sir.”

“Well?”

“I took your note, sir, and he’ll be glad to see you to-morrow morning at twelve.”

“That will do. Now take the other.”

Stuart Denville could not restrain himself as he heard those voices just behind, and it was as if some power had turned him sharply round to see Major Rockley in conversation with one of the private dragoons of his regiment.

The man had delivered his message to his master, and then turned stiffly to go, coming face to face with Denville, whose whole manner changed. He turned deadly pale, of an unwholesome pallor, and then the blood seemed to flush to his face and head. His eyes flashed and his lips parted as if to speak, but the dragoon saluted, turned upon his heel, and strode away.

“Anything the matter, Denville?” said the Major, who had seen something of the encounter.

“Matter, matter,” said the old man hoarsely, and he now began to tremble violently. “No – no, – a little faint. You’ll pardon me, – a chair, – a – ”

The old man would have fallen, but the Major caught his arm and helped him to a seat, where a crowd of fashionables surrounded him, and did all they possibly could to prevent his recovery from his fit by keeping away every breath of air, and thrusting at him bottles of salts, vinaigrettes, and scents of every fashionable kind.

“What’s the matter with the old fellow?” said the Major, as he twirled his moustache. “Could he have known about the note? Impossible; and if he had known, why should he turn faint? Bah! Absurd! The heat. He’s little better than a shadow, after all.”

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Two.
A Surreptitious Visitor

“Major Rockley’s servant to see you, miss.”

Claire started from her seat and looked at Footman Isaac with a troubled expression that was full of shame and dread.

She dropped her eyes on the instant as she thought of her position.

It was four o’clock, and the promenade on cliff and pier in full swing. Her father would not be back for two hours, Morton was away somewhere, and it was so dreadful – so degrading – to be obliged to see her brother, the prodigal, in the servants’ part of the house.

For herself she would not have cared, but it was lowering her brother; and, trying to be calm and firm, she said:

“Show him in here, Isaac.”

“In here, miss?”

“Yes.”

“Please ma’am, master said – ”

“Show him in here, Isaac,” said Claire, drawing herself up with her eyes flashing, and the colour returning to her cheeks.

The footman backed out quickly, and directly after there was the clink of spurs, and a heavy tread. Then the door opened and closed, and Major Hockley’s servant, James Bell, otherwise Fred Denville, strode into the room; and Isaac’s retreating steps were heard.

“Fred!” cried Claire, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing the handsome bronzed face again and again.

“My darling girl!” he cried, holding her tightly to his breast, while his face lit up as he returned her caresses.

“Oh, Fred!” she said, as she laid her hands then upon his shoulders and gazed at him at arm’s length, “you’ve been drinking.”

“One half-pint of ale. That’s all: upon my soul,” he said. “I say, I wish it were not wicked to commit murder.”

If he had by some blow paralysed her he could not have produced a greater change in her aspect, for her eyes grew wild and the colour faded out of her cheeks and lips.

“Don’t look like that,” he said, smiling. “I shan’t do it – at least, not while I’m sober; but I should like to wring that supercilious scoundrel’s neck. He looks down upon me in a way that is quite comical.”

“Why did you come, dear?” said Claire sadly. “Oh, Fred, if I could but buy you out, so that you could begin life again.”

“No good, my dear little girl,” he said tenderly. “There’s something wrong in my works. I’ve no stability, and I should only go wrong again.”

“But, if you would try, Fred.”

“Try, my pet!” he said fiercely; “Heaven knows how I did try, but the drink was too much for me. If we had been brought up to some honest way of making a living, and away from this sham, I might have been different, but it drove me to drink, and I never had any self-command. I’m best where I am; obliged to be sober as the Major’s servant.”

There was a contemptuous look in his eyes as he said this last.

“And that makes it so much worse,” sighed Claire with a sad smile. “If you were only the King’s servant – a soldier – I would not so much mind.”

“Perhaps it is best as it is,” he said sternly.

“Don’t say that, Fred dear.”

“But I do say it, girl. If I had been brought up differently – Bah! I didn’t come here to grumble about the old man.”

“No, no, pray, pray don’t. And, Fred dear, you must not stop. Do you want a little money?”

“Yes!” he cried eagerly. “No! Curse it all, girl, I wish you would not tempt me. So you are not glad to see me?”

“Indeed, yes, Fred; but you must not stay. If our father were to return there would be such a scene.”

“He will not. He is on the pier, and won’t be back these two hours. Where’s Morton?”

“Out, dear.”

“Then we are all right. Did you expect me?”

“No, dear. Let me make you some tea.”

“No; stop here. Didn’t you expect this?”

He drew a note from his breast.

“That note? No, dear. Who is it from?”

Fred Denville looked his sister searchingly in the face, and its innocent candid expression satisfied him, and he drew a sigh full of relief.

“If it had been May who looked at me like that, I should have said she was telling me a lie.”

“Oh, Fred!”

“Bah! You know it’s true. Little wax-doll imp. But I believe you, Claire. Fate’s playing us strange tricks. I am James Bell, Major Rockley’s servant, and he trusts me with his commissions. This is a billet-doux– a love-letter – to my sister, which my master sends, and I am to wait for an answer.”

Claire drew herself up, and as her brother saw the blood mantle in her face, and the haughty, angry look in her eyes as she took the letter and tore it to pieces, he, too, drew himself up, and there was a proud air in his aspect.

“There is no answer to Major Rockley’s letter,” she said coldly. “How dare he write to me!”

“Claire, old girl, I must hug you,” cried the dragoon. “By George! I feel as if I were not ashamed of the name of Denville after all. I was going to bully you and tell you that my superior officer is as big a scoundrel as ever breathed, and that if you carried on with him I’d shoot you. Now, bully me, my pet, and tell your prodigal drunken dragoon of a brother that he ought to be ashamed of himself for even thinking such a thing. I won’t shrink.”

“My dear brother,” she said tenderly, as she placed her hands in his.

“My dear sister,” he said softly, as he kissed her little white hands in turn, “I need not warn and try to teach you, for I feel that I might come to you for help if I could learn. There – there. Some day you’ll marry some good fellow.”

She shook her head.

“Yes, you will,” he said. “Richard Linnell, perhaps. Don’t let the old man worry you into such a match as May’s.”

“I shall never marry,” said Claire, in a low strange voice; “never.”

“Yes, you will,” he said, smiling; “but what you have to guard against is not the gallantries of the contemptible puppies who haunt this place, but some big match that – Ah! Too late!”

He caught a glimpse of his father’s figure passing the window, and made for the door, but it was only to stand face to face with the old man, who came in hastily, haggard, and wild of eye.

Fred Denville drew back into the room as his father staggered in, and then, as the door swung to and fastened itself, there was a terrible silence, and Claire looked on speechless for the moment, as she saw her brother draw himself up, military fashion, while her father’s face changed in a way that was horrible to behold.

He looked ten years older. His eyes started; his jaw fell, and his hands trembled as he raised them, with the thick cane hanging from one wrist.

He tried to speak, but the words would not come for a few moments.

At last his speech seemed to return, and, in a voice full of rage, hate, and horror combined, he cried furiously:

“You here! – fiend! – wretch! – villain!”

“Oh, father!” cried Claire, darting to his side.

“Hush, Claire! Let him speak,” said Fred.

“Was it not enough that I forbade you the house before; but, now – to come – to dare – villain! – wretch! – coldblooded, miserable wretch! You are no son of mine. Out of my sight! Curse you! I curse you with all the bitterness that – ”

“Father! father!” cried Claire, in horrified tones, as she threw herself between them; but, in his rage, the old man struck her across the face with his arm, sending her tottering back.

“Oh, this is too much,” cried Fred, dropping his stolid manner. “You cowardly – ”

“Cowardly! Ha! ha! ha! Cowardly!” screamed the old man, catching at his stick. “You say that – you?”

As Fred strode towards him, the old man struck him with his cane, a sharp well-directed blow across the left ear, and, stung to madness by the pain, the tall strong man caught the frail-looking old beau by the throat and bore him back into a chair, holding him with one hand while his other was clenched and raised to strike.

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Three.
Father and Daughter

“Strike! Kill me! Add parricide to your other crimes, dog, and set me free of this weary life,” cried the old man wildly, as he glared in the fierce, distorted face of the sturdy soldier who held him back.

But it wanted not Claire’s hand upon Fred Denville’s arm to stay the blow. The passionate rage fled as swiftly as it had flashed up, and he tore himself away.

“You shouldn’t have struck me,” he cried in a voice full of anguish. “I couldn’t master myself. You struck her – the best and truest girl who ever breathed; and I’d rather be what I am – scamp, drunkard, common soldier, and have struck you down, than you, who gave that poor girl a cowardly blow. Claire – my girl – God bless you! I can come here no more.”

He caught her wildly in his arms, kissed her passionately, and then literally staggered out of the house, and they saw him reel by the window.

There was again a terrible silence in that room, where the old man, looking feeble and strange now, lay back in the chair where he had been thrown, staring wildly straight before him as Claire sank upon the carpet, burying her face in her hands and sobbing to herself.

“And this is home! And this is home!”

She tried to restrain her tears, but they burst forth with sobs more wild and uncontrolled; and at last they had their effect upon the old man, whose wild stare passed off, and, rising painfully in his seat, he glared at the door and shuddered.

“How dare he come!” he muttered. “How dare he touch her! How – ”

He stopped as he turned his eyes upon where Claire crouched, as if he had suddenly become aware of her presence, and his face softened into a piteous yearning look as he stretched out his hands towards her, and then slowly rose to his feet.

“I struck her,” he muttered, “I struck her. My child – my darling! I – I – Claire – Claire – ”

His voice was very low as he slowly sank upon his knees, and softly laid one hand upon her dress, raising it to his lips and kissing it with a curiously strange abasement in his manner.

Claire did not move nor seem to hear him, and he crept nearer to her and timidly laid his hand upon her head.

He snatched it away directly, and knelt there gazing at her wildly, for she shuddered, shrank from him, and, starting to her feet, backed towards the door with such a look of repulsion in her face that the old man clasped his hands together, and his lips parted as if to cry to her for mercy.

But no sound left them, and for a full minute they remained gazing the one at the other. Then, with a heartrending sob, Claire drew open the door and hurried from the room.

“What shall I do? What shall I do?” groaned Denville as he rose heavily to his feet. “It is too hard to bear. Better sleep – at once and for ever.”

He sank into his chair with his hands clasped and his elbows resting upon his knees, and he bent lower and lower, as if borne down by the weight of his sorrow; and thus he remained as the minutes glided by, till, hearing a step at last, and the jingle of glass, he rose quickly, smoothed his care-marked face, and thrusting his hand into his breast, began to pace the room, catching up hat and stick, and half closing his eyes, as if in deep thought.

It was a good bit of acting, for when Isaac entered with a tray to lay the dinner cloth, and glanced quickly at his master, it was to see him calm and apparently buried in some plan, with not the slightest trace of domestic care upon his well-masked face.

“Mr Morton at home, Isaac?” he said, with a slightly-affected drawl.

“No, sir; been out hours.”

“Not gone fishing, Isaac?”

“No, sir; I think Mr Morton’s gone up to the barracks, sir. Said he should be back to dinner, sir.”

“That is right, Isaac. That is right. I think I will go for a little promenade before dinner myself.”

“He’s a rum ’un,” muttered the footman as he stood behind the curtain on one side of the window; “anyone would think we were all as happy as the day’s long here, when all the time the place is chock full of horrors, and if I was to speak – ”

Isaac did not finish his sentence, but remained watching the Master of the Ceremonies with his careful mincing step till he was out of sight, when the footman turned from the window to stand tapping the dining-table with his finger tips.

“If I was to go, there’d be a regular wreck, and I shouldn’t get a penny of my back wages. If I stay, he may get them two well married, and then there’d be money in the house. Better stay. Lor’, if people only knew all I could tell ’em about this house, and the scraping, and putting off bills, and the troubles with Miss May and the two boys, and – ”

Isaac drew a long breath and turned rather white.

“I feel sometimes as if I ought to make a clean breast of it, but I don’t like to. He isn’t such a bad sort, when you come to know him, but that – ugh!”

He shuddered, and began to rattle the knives and forks upon the table, giving one a rub now and then on his shabby livery.

“It’s a puzzler,” he said, stopping short, after breathing in a glass, and giving it a rub with a cloth. “Some day, I suppose, there’ll be a difference, and he’ll be flush of money. I suppose he daren’t start yet. Suppose I – No; that wouldn’t do. He’ll pay all the back, then, and I might – ”

Isaac shuddered again, and muttered to himself in a very mysterious way. Then, all at once:

“Why, I might cry halves, and make him set me up for life. Why not? She was good as gone, and – ”

He set down the glass, and wiped the dew that had gathered off his brow, looking whiter than before, for just then a memory had come into Isaac’s mental vision – it was a horrible recollection of having been tempted to go and see the execution of a murderer at the county town, and this man’s accomplice was executed a month later.

“Accomplice” was an ugly word that seemed to force itself into Isaac’s mind, and he shook his head and hurriedly finished laying the cloth.

“Let him pay me my wages, all back arrears,” he said. “Perhaps there is a way of selling a secret without being an accomplice, but I don’t know, and – oh, I couldn’t do it. It would kill that poor girl, who’s about worried to death with the dreadful business, without there being anything else.”

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Four.
Pressed for Money

As a rule, a tailor is one who will give unlimited credit so long as his client is a man of society, with expectations, and the maker of garments can charge his own prices; but Stuart Denville, Esq, MC, of Saltinville, paid a visit to his tailor to find that gentleman inexorable.

“No, Mr Denville, sir, it ain’t to be done. I should be glad to fit out the young man, as he should be fitted out as a gentleman, sir; but there is bounds to everything.”

“Exactly, my dear Mr Ping, but I can assure you that before long both his and my accounts shall be paid.”

“No, sir, can’t do it. I’m very busy, too. Why not try Crowder and Son?”

“My dee-ar Mr Ping – you’ll pardon me? I ask you as a man, as an artist in your profession, could I see my son – my heir – a gentleman who I hope some day will make a brilliant match – a young man who is going at once into the best of society – could I now, Mr Ping, see that youth in a suit of clothes made by Crowder and Son? Refuse my appeal, if you please, my dear sir, but – you’ll pardon me – do not add insult to the injury.”

Mr Ping was mollified, and rubbed his hands softly. This was flattering: for Crowder and Son, according to his view of the case, did not deserve to be called tailors – certainly not gentlemen’s tailors; but he remained firm.

“No, Mr Denville, sir, far be it from me to wish to insult you, sir, and I thank you for the amount of custom you’ve brought me. You can’t say as I’m unfair.”

“You’ll pardon me, Mr Ping; I never did.”

“Thank you, sir; but as I was a saying, you’ve had clothes of me, sir, for years, and you haven’t paid me, sir, and I haven’t grumbled, seeing as you’ve introduced me clients, but I can’t start an account for Mr Denville, junior, sir, and I won’t.”

The MC took snuff, and rested first on one leg and then on the other; lastly, he held his head on one side and admired two or three velvet waistcoat pieces, so as to give Mr Ping time to repent. But Mr Ping did not want time to repent, and he would not have repented had the MC stayed an hour, and this the latter knew, but dared not resent, bowing himself out at last gracefully.

“Good-morning, Mr Ping, good-morning. I am sorry you – er – but no matter. Lovely day, is it not?”

“Lovely, sir. Good-morning – poor, penniless, proud, stuck-up, half-starved old dandy,” muttered the prosperous tradesman, as he stood in his shirt-sleeves at the door, his grey hair all brushed forward into a fierce frise, and a yellow inch tape round his neck like an alderman’s chain. “I wouldn’t trust his boy a sixpence to save his life. Prospects, indeed. Fashion, indeed. I expect he’ll have to ’list.”

The MC went smiling and mincing along the parade, waving his cane jauntily, and passing his snuff-box into the other hand now and then to raise his hat to some one or another, till he turned up a side street, when, in the solitude of the empty way, he uttered a low groan, and his face changed.

“My God!” he muttered. “How long is this miserable degradation to last?”

He looked round sharply, as if in dread lest the emotion into which he had been betrayed should have been observed, but there was no one near.

“I must try Barclay. I dare not go to Frank Burnett, for poor May’s sake.”

A few minutes later he minced and rolled up to a large, heavy-looking mansion in a back street, where, beneath a great dingy portico, a grotesque satyr’s head held a heavy knocker, and grinned at the visitor who made it sound upon the door.

“Hallo, Denville, you here?” said Mr Barclay, coming up from the street. “Didn’t expect to see you. I’ve got the key: come in.”

“A little bit of business, my dear sir. I thought I’d come on instead of writing. Thanks – you’ll pardon me – a pinch of snuff – the Prince’s own mixture.”

“Ah yes.” Snuff, snuff, snuff. “Don’t like it though – too scented for me. Come along.”

He led the way through a large, gloomy hall, well hung with large pictures and ornamented with pedestals and busts, up a broad, well-carpeted staircase and into the drawing-room of the house – a room, however, that looked more like a museum, so crowded was it with pictures, old china, clocks, statues, and bronzes. Huge vases, tiny Dresden ornaments, rich carpets, branches and lustres of cut-glass and ormolu, almost jostled each other, while the centre of the room was filled with lounges, chairs and tables, rich in buhl and marqueterie.

At a table covered with papers sat plump, pleasant-looking Mrs Barclay, in a very rich, stiff brocade silk. Her appearance was vulgar; there were too many rings upon her fat fingers, too much jewellery about her neck and throat; and her showy cap was a wonder of lace and ribbons; but Nature had set its stamp upon her countenance, and though she was holding her head on one side, pursing up her lips and frowning as she wrote in the big ledger-like book open before her, there was no mistaking the fact that she was a thoroughly good-hearted amiable soul.

“Oh, bless us, how you startled me!” she cried, throwing herself back, for the door had opened quietly, and steps were hardly heard upon the soft carpet. “Why, it’s you, Mr Denville, looking as if you were just going to a ball. How are you? Not well? You look amiss. And how’s Miss Claire? and pretty little Mrs Mayblossom – Mrs Burnett?”

“My daughters are well in the extreme, Mrs Barclay,” said the MC, taking the lady’s plump extended hand as she rose, to bend over it, and kiss the fingers with the most courtly grace. “And you, my dear madam, you?”

“Oh, she’s well enough, Denville,” said Barclay, chuckling. “Robust’s the word for her.”

“For shame, Jo-si-ah!” exclaimed the lady, reddening furiously. She had only blushed slightly before with pleasure; and after kicking back her stiff silk dress to make a profound curtsey. “You shouldn’t say such things. Why, Mr Denville, I haven’t seen you for ever so long; and I’ve meant to call on Miss Claire, for we always get on so well together; but I’m so busy, what with the servants, and the dusting, and the keeping the books, and the exercise as I’m obliged to take – ”

“And don’t,” said Barclay, placing a chair for the MC, and then sitting down and putting his hands in his pockets.

“For shame, Jo-si-ah. I do indeed, Mr Denville, and it do make me so hot.”

“There, that’ll do, old lady. Mr Denville wants to see me on business. Don’t you, Denville?”

“Yes – on a trifle of business; but I know that Mrs Barclay is in your confidence. You’ll pardon me, Mrs Barclay?”

A looker-on would have imagined that he was about to dance a minuet with the lady, but he delicately took her fingers by the very tip and led her back to her seat, into which she meant to glide gracefully, but plumped down in a very feather-beddy way, and then blushed and frowned.

“Oh, Mr Denville won’t mind me; and him an old neighbour, too, as knows how I keep your books and everything. It isn’t as if he was one of your wicked bucks, and bloods, and macaronies as they calls ’em.”

“Now, when you’ve done talking, woman, perhaps you’ll let Denville speak.”

“Jo-si-ah!” exclaimed the lady, reddening, or to speak more correctly, growing more red, as she raised a large fan, which hung by a silken cord, and used it furiously.

“Now then, Denville, what is it?” said Barclay, throwing himself back in his chair, and looking the extreme of vulgarity beside the visitor’s refinement.

“You’ll pardon me, Mr Barclay?” said the MC, bowing. “Thanks. The fact is, my dear Barclay, the time has arrived when I must launch my son Morton upon the stream of the fashionable world.”

“Mean to marry him well?” said Barclay, smiling.

“Exactly. Yes. You’ll pardon me.”

He took snuff in a slow, deliberate, and studied mode that Mrs Barclay watched attentively, declaring afterwards that it was as good as a play, while her husband also took his pinch from his own box, but in a loud, rough, frill-browning way.

“I have high hopes and admirable prospects opening out before him, my dear Barclay. Fortune seems to have marked him for her own, and to have begun to smile.”

“Fickle jade, sir; fickle jade.”

“At times – you’ll pardon me. At times. Let us enjoy her smiles while we can. And now, my dear Barclay, that I wish to launch him handsomely and well – to add to his natural advantages the little touches of dress, a cane and snuff-box, and such trifles – I find, through the absence of so many fashionable visitors affecting my fees, I am troubled, inconvenienced for the want of a few guineas, and – er – it is very ridiculous – er – really I did not know whom to ask, till it occurred to me that you, my dear sir, would oblige me with, say, forty or fifty upon my note of hand.”

“Couldn’t do it, sir. Haven’t the money. Couldn’t.”

“Don’t talk such stuff, Jo-si-ah,” exclaimed Mrs Barclay, fanning herself sharply, and making a sausage-like curl wabble to and fro, and her ribbons flutter. “You can if you like.”

“Woman!” he exclaimed furiously.

“Oh, I don’t mind you saying ‘woman,’” retorted the lady. “Telling such wicked fibs, and to an old neighbour too. If it had been that nasty, sneering, snickle dandy, Sir Harry Payne, or that big, pompous, dressed-up Sir Matthew Bray, you’d have lent them money directly. I’m ashamed of you.”

“Will you allow me to carry on my business in my own way, madam?”

“Yes, when it’s with nobodies; but I won’t sit by and hear you tell our old neighbour, who wants a bit of help, that you couldn’t do it, and that you haven’t the money, when anybody can see it sticking out in lumps in both of your breeches’ pockets, if they like to look.”

“’Pon my soul, woman,” said Barclay, banging his fist down upon the table, “you’re enough to drive a man mad. Denville, that woman will ruin me.”

Mrs Barclay shut up her fan and sat back in her chair, and there was a curious kind of palpitating throbbing perceptible all over her that was almost startling at first till her face broke up in dimples, and the red lips parted, showing her white teeth, while her eyes half-closed. For Mrs Barclay was laughing heartily.

“Ruin him, Mr Denville, ruin him!” she cried. “Ha, ha, ha, and me knowing that – ”

“Woman, will you hold your tongue?” thundered Barclay. “There, don’t take any notice of what I said, Denville. I’ve been put out this morning and money’s scarce. You owe me sixty now and interest, besides two years’ rent.”

“I do – I do, my dear sir; but really, my dear Barclay, I intend to repay you every guinea.”

“He’s going to lend it to you, Mr Denville,” said Mrs Barclay. “It’s only his way. He always tells people he hasn’t any money, and that he has to get it from his friend in the City.”

“Be quiet, woman,” said Barclay, smiling grimly. “There, I’ll let you have it, Denville. Make a memorandum of it, my gal. Let’s see: how much do you want? Twenty-five will do, I suppose?”

“My dear friend – you’ll pardon me – if you could make it fifty you would confer a lasting obligation upon me. I have great hopes, indeed.”

“Fifty? It’s a great deal of money, Denville.”

“Lend him the fifty, Josiah, and don’t make so much fuss about it,” said the lady, opening the ledger, after drawing her chair to the table, taking a dip of ink, and writing rapidly in a round, clear hand. “Got a stamp?”

“Yes,” said Barclay, taking a large well-worn pocket-book from his breast, and separating one from quite a quire. “Fill it up. Two months after date, Denville?”

“You’ll pardon me.”

“What’s the use of doing a neighbour a good turn,” said Mrs Barclay, filling up the slip of blue paper in the most business-like manner, “and spoiling it by being so tight. ‘Six months – after – date – interest – at – five – per – centum’ – there.”

Mrs Barclay put her quill pen across her mouth, and, turning the bill stamp over, gave it a couple of vigorous rubs on the blotting-paper before handing it to her husband, who ran his eye over it quickly.

“Why, you’ve put five per cent, per annum,” he cried. “Here, fill up another. Five per cent.”

“Stuff!” said Mrs Barclay stoutly; “are you going to charge the poor man sixty per cent? I shan’t fill up another. Here, you sign this, Mr Denville. Give the poor man his money, Josiah.”

“Well,” exclaimed Barclay, taking a cash-box from a drawer and opening it with a good deal of noise, “if ever man was cursed with a tyrant for a wife – ”

“It isn’t you. There!” cried Mrs Barclay, taking the bill which the visitor had duly signed, and placing it in a case along with some of its kin.

“There you are, Denville,” said Barclay, counting out the money in notes, “and if you go and tell people what a fool I am, I shall have to leave the town.”

“Not while I live, Mr Barclay,” said the MC, taking the notes carefully, but with an air of indolent carelessness and grace, as if they were of no account to such a man as he. “Sir, I thank you from my very heart. You have done me a most kindly action. Mrs Barclay, I thank you. My daughter shall thank you for this. You’ll pardon me. My visit is rather short. But business. Mr Barclay, good-day. I shall not forget this. Mrs Barclay, your humble servant.”

He took the hand she held out by the tips of the fingers, and bent over it to kiss them with the most delicate of touches; but somehow, just then there seemed to be a catch in his breath, and he pressed his lips firmly on the soft, fat hand.

“God bless you!” he said huskily, and he turned and left the room.

“Poor man!” said Mrs Barclay after a few moments’ pause, as she and her lord listened to the descending steps, and heard the front door close. “Why, look here, Josiah, at my hand, if it ain’t a tear.”

“Tchah! an old impostor and sham. Wipe it off, woman, wipe it off. Kissing your hand, too, like that, before my very face.”

“No, Jo-si-ah, I don’t believe he’s a bad one under all his sham and fuss. Folks don’t know folkses’ insides. They say you are about the hard-heartedest old money-lender that ever breathed, but they don’t know you as I do. There, it was very good of you to let him have it, poor old man. I knew you would.”

“I’ve thrown fifty pounds slap into the gutter.”

“No, you haven’t, dear; you’ve lent it to that poor old fellow, and you’ve just pleased me a deal better than if you’d given me a diamond ring, and that’s for it, and more to come.”

As she spoke she threw one plump arm round the money-lender’s neck, and there was a sound in the room as of a smack.

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Five.
A Revelation

“Oh, May, May! As if I had not care and pain enough without this. Surely it cannot be true.”

“Hush! don’t make a fuss like that, you silly thing. You’ll have the people hearing you down in the street. How could I help it?”

“Help it? May, you must have been mad.”

“Oh! no, I wasn’t,” said Mrs Burnett, nestling into a corner of the couch in her father’s drawing-room. “I believe he was, though, poor fellow.”

She gazed up at her portrait with her pretty girlish face wrinkling up, and these wrinkles seeming to have had work to get the better of the dimples in her baby cheeks and chin.

“He was dreadfully fond of me, Claire,” she continued, “and I was very fond of him. And then, you see, we were both so young.”

Claire clasped her hands together and gazed at her sister with a face full of wonder, she seemed so calm and unconcerned, as if it were some one else’s trouble and not her own that had brought the tears into her eyes.

“But, May, why did not you confide in me?”

“Likely! You were always scolding and snubbing me, as it was. I don’t know what you would have said if you had known. Besides, I was afraid of you in those days.”

“May, you will drive me mad,” said Claire, pacing the room.

“Nonsense; and don’t go on running up and down the room like that. Be sensible, and help me.”

“Why have you not told me before?”

“I’ve been going to tell you heaps of times, but you’ve always had something or other to worry about, and I’ve been put off.”

“Till you knew that detection was inevitable; and now you come to me,” cried Claire reproachfully.

“Look here, Claire, are you going to talk sensibly, or am I to go to some lady friend to help me? There’s Mrs Pontardent.”

“No, no,” cried Claire excitedly. “You must not take anyone else into your confidence. Tell me all. But May, May, is this really true, or is it some miserable invention of your own?”

“Oh, it’s true enough,” said May sharply, as she arranged her bonnet strings, and bent forward to catch a glimpse of her great ostrich feather.

Claire looked at her with her face drawn with care and horror, while she wondered at the indifference of the little wife, and the easy way in which she was trying to shift the trouble and responsibility of her weakness and folly upon her sister.

“Why, May, you could not have been seventeen.”

“Sixteen and a half,” said May. “Heigho! I begin to feel quite an old woman now.”

“But, Frank? Do you ever think of the consequences if he were to know?”

“Why, of course I do, you silly thing. Haven’t I lain in bed and quaked hundreds of times for fear he should ever find out? How can you talk so? Why do you suppose I came to you, if it was not that I was afraid of his getting to know?”

“May, it would drive our father mad if all came out.”

“Of course it would. Now you are beginning to wake up and understand why I have come.”

“How could you accept Frank Burnett, and deceive him so?”

“How could I marry him? What would papa have said if I had refused? Don’t talk stuff.”

Claire’s brow knit more and more, as she realised her sister’s utter want of principle, and her heart seemed rent by anger, pity, and grief.

“Besides, do you suppose I wanted to stop here and pinch and starve when a rich husband and home were waiting for me? Poor Louis was dead, and if I’d cried my eyes out every week and said I’d be a widow for ever and ever, it would not have brought him to life.”

Claire did not speak. Her words would not come, and she gazed in utter perplexity, struggling to realise the fact that the girlish little thing before her could possibly have been a widow and mother before she became Mrs Burnett.

“When – when did this begin?” said Claire at last.

“Now, don’t talk to me like that, Claire, or you’ll set me off crying my eyes blind, and I shall go home red and miserable, and Frank will find it all out.”

“He must be told.”

“Told?” cried May, starting up. “Told? If he is told, I’ll go right down to the end of the pier and drown myself. He must never know, and papa must never know. Do you think I’ve kept this a secret for more than two years for them to be told?”

“They will be sure to know.”

“Yes, if you tell them. Oh, Claire, Claire, I did think I could find help in my sister, now that I am in such terrible trouble.”

“I will help you all I can, May,” said Claire sadly; “but they must know.”

“I tell you they must not,” cried May angrily, and speaking like a spoiled child. “Frank would kill me, and as for poor, dear, darling papa, with all his troubles about getting you married and Morton settled, and Fred turning out so badly, it would kill him, and then you’d have a nice time of it, far worse than poor old mummy Teigne being killed.”

“Oh, hush, May!” said Claire, with a horrified look.

“That moves you, does it, miss? Well, then, be reasonable. I don’t know what to make of you of late, Claire; you seem to be so changed. Ah, you’ll find the difference when you’re a married woman.”

Claire gazed down at her, with the trouble and perplexity seeming to increase, while May Burnett arranged the folds of her dress, as she once more nestled in the corner of the old sofa, and seemed as if she were posing herself to be pitied and helped.

Then she lifted her eyes towards the florid portrait on the wall, and sighed.

“Poor Louis! How he did flatter me. But he always did that, and I suppose it was his flattering words made me love him so. I was very fond of him.”

“May,” said Claire excitedly, “when was it you were married?”

“Oh, it was such fun. It was while I was staying at Aunt Jerdein’s, and taking the music lessons. I went out as usual, to go to Golden Square for my lesson as aunt thought, and Louis was waiting for me, and he took me in a hackney coach with straw at the bottom and mouldy old cushions, and one of the windows broken. And we went to such a queer old church somewhere in the city, and were married – a little old church that smelt as mouldy as the hackney coach; and the funny old clergyman took snuff all over his surplice, and he did mumble so.”

“And then?”

“Oh, Louis left Saltinville, you know, when I went up to London, and gave lessons at Aunt Jerdein’s, and we used to see as much of each other as we could, till he had to go back to Rome, and there, poor boy, you know he died of fever.”

Claire did not speak, but stood with her hands clasped before her, listening to the calm, cool, selfish words that seemed to come rippling out from the prettily-curved mouth as if it were one of the simplest and most matter-of-fact things in the world.

“It was a great trouble to me, of course, dear,” May continued; and she raised herself a little, to spread her handsome dress, so that it should fall in graceful folds. “I used to cry my eyes out, and I don’t know what I should have done if it had not been for Anne Brown.”

“Anne Brown? Aunt Jerdein’s servant?” said Claire bitterly. “You trusted her, then, in preference to your own sister.”

“No, I didn’t, baby. She found me out. And besides, I daren’t have told you. How you would have scolded me, you know,” continued May. “Anne was very good to me, and I went and stayed with her mother when baby was born, and then Anne left aunt soon after. Aunt thought, you know, that I’d come down home, and, of course, you all thought I was still at aunt’s. Anne Brown managed about the letters.”

“Go on,” said Claire, who listened as if this were all some horrible fiction that she was forced to hear.

“Then I did come home, and Anne Brown took care of poor baby with her mother, and it was terribly hard work to get money to send them, but somehow I did it; and then you know about Frank Burnett, how poor dear papa brought all that on.”

Claire uttered a sigh that was almost a groan, but the pretty little rosebud of a wife went prattling on, in selfish ignorance of the agony she was inflicting, dividing her attention between her dress and the picture of herself that was smiling down at her from the wall.

“I suffered very much all that time, Claire dear, and, whenever I could, I used to go upstairs, lock myself in my room, and put on a little widow’s cap I had – a very small one, dear, of white crape – and have a good cry about poor Louis. It was the only mourning I ever could wear for him, and it was nearly always locked up in the bottom drawer; but I used to carry a bit of black crape in my dress pocket, and touch that now and then. It was a little strip put through my wedding ring and tied in a knot. There it is,” she said, fishing it out of her dress pocket; “but the strip of crape only looks like a bit of black rag now.”

She held out a tiny, plain gold ring for her sister to see, and it looked so small that it seemed as if it had been used sometime when a little girl had been playing at being married with some little boy, or at one of the child weddings that history records.

“Poor Louis!” sighed May. “I was very fond of him. Then, when I was married again, of course I was able to send money up every week easily enough till Frank began to grow so stingy, when I’ve often had no end of trouble to get it together. But I always have managed somehow. Oh, dear me! This is a wearisome place, this world.”

Claire stood gazing down at her, and May went on:

“Then all went smoothly enough till that stupid Anne’s mother took a cold or something, and died; then Anne sent me word that she was going to be married, and I must fetch poor baby away.”

The sisters’ eyes now met as May continued:

“So, as I didn’t know anyone else, I went to Mrs Miggles out there on the cliff, and told her how I was situated. She wouldn’t help me at first. She said I was to tell you; but when I told her I dared not, and promised her I’d pay her very regularly, she came round, and she went up to London by the coach and fetched baby, and a great expense it was to me, for she had to come back inside. Do open the window, Claire; this room is stifling.”

Claire slowly crossed the room and threw open the window and then returned to stand gazing at her sister.

“And your little innocent child is there at that fisherman’s hut on the cliff?”

“Yes, dear,” said May calmly; and then, for the first time, her face lit up, and she showed some trace of feeling as she exclaimed:

“And, oh, Claire dear, she is such a little darling.”

Claire looked at her in a strangely impassive way. It was as if the story she had heard of her sister’s weakness and deception had stunned her, and, instead of looking at her, she gazed right away with wistful eyes at the past troubles culminating in Fred’s enlistment, and then that horror, the very thought of which sent a shudder through her frame.

And now this new trouble had come, one that might prove a terrible disgrace, while the future looked so black that she dared not turn her mental gaze in that direction.

“Well,” said May, at last, “why don’t you speak – though you need not, if you are only going to scold.”

“Why have you come to tell me this now – this disgraceful story of deceit and shame?”

“Do you wish to send me back broken-hearted, Claire – crying my eyes out so that Frank is sure to know?”

“I say, why have you come to me, May?”

“Because I am in dreadful trouble at last, and don’t know what to do. I daren’t communicate with those people or go near the cottage, for I’m sure Frank is watching me and suspecting something.”

“You will have to confess everything, May; he loves you and will forgive you.”

“But he doesn’t love me, and he never would forgive me,” cried May excitedly. “You can’t think how we quarrel. He’s a horribly jealous little monster, and I hate him.”

“May!”

“I don’t care: I do. Now, look here, Claire, it’s of no use for you to boggle about it, because you must help me. If it were to come out it would be social ruin for us all, and I’ve had quite enough poverty, thank you. I dare not go and see the little thing again, and if some one does not take the Miggleses some money regularly, likely as not they’ll turn disagreeable and begin to talk. I shall bring you money, of course, and as some one must go and see that my poor darling is properly cared for, why you must.”

“I?”

“Yes, dear, you. The poor little thing shall not be neglected, I’m determined upon that; and as my situation prevents me, why it is your duty, Claire.”

“Who knows that this is your little girl, May?” said Claire coldly.

“Nobody.”

“Not even the fisherman’s wife?”

“Well, I dare say she thinks something; but those people never say anything so long as you pay them regularly. But there, I dare not stay any longer. There’s a guinea, Claire; it’s all I have to-day. Take that to Mrs Miggles, and see how the darling is. I must be off. I’ll come in to-morrow and hear.”

“May, I cannot – I dare not – try to cloak this shameful story.”

“But you must, I tell you. Now, don’t be so silly. Why, I’d do as much for you.”

“I tell you I dare not do this. I must tell papa – or, there, I’ll be your help in this; I’ll come with you, and you shall confess to Frank.”

“Why, he’d kill me. I know it has been a surprise to you, and you are a bit taken aback, but think about it, and you will see that it is your duty to help me now. Good-bye, Claire dear,” she continued, as she kissed her sister. “Nobody knows anything about this but you, and it is our secret, mind. Good-bye.”

Claire hardly heard the door close as May rustled out of the room, hot and excited by the confidence she had had to make, but evidently quite at her ease, as her bright eyes and smile showed, when she looked up from her carriage and nodded at her sister.

Claire looked down at her, drawn involuntarily to the window; and as the carriage drove off, and she still remained gazing straight before her, an officer passed and raised his hat.

Claire had an instinctive feeling that it was Major Rockley, but she neither looked nor moved, for the face of a tiny child seemed to be looking up at her, smiling, and asking her sympathy.

Then she started into life as there was another footstep on the boulder path, and another hat was raised, and an eager appealing look met hers, making her shrink hastily away, with her erst blank face growing agitated as she drew back trembling and fighting hard to keep down the sobs that rose.

For all that was past now for her. With the secrets she had held within her breast before, how dared she to think of his love? Now there was another – a secret so fraught with future trouble that she hardly dared dwell upon all that she had heard. It had come upon her that morning like a thunderclap – this new trouble, known only to herself and the fisherman’s wife. So May had said: for she had gone to her sister to demand her aid in happy ignorance of this part of her miserable story being known, beside much more, to little library-keeping Miss Clode.

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Six.
The Money-Lender at Home

“Who is it?”

“It’s that Major Rockley, Jo-si-ah, and he’s walking up and down, switching his riding-whip about, and he’ll be knocking down some of the chimney if you don’t make haste.”

“Let him wait a minute,” said Barclay, finishing a letter.

“I do ’ate that man, Jo-si-ah – that I do,” said Mrs Barclay.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk so, old lady, when I’m writing.”

“I can’t help it, Jo-si-ah. That man, whenever I meet him, makes me begin to boil. So smooth, and polite, and smiling, and squeeze-your-handy, while all the while he’s laughing at you for being so fat.”

“Laughing at me for being so fat?”

“No, no. You know what I mean – laughing at me myself for being so fat. I ’ate him.”

“Well, I don’t want you to love him, old lady.”

“I should think not, indeed, with his nasty dark eyes and his long black mustarchers. Ugh! the monster. I ’ate him.”

“Handsomest man in Saltinville, my dear.”

“Handsome is as handsome does, Jo-si-ah. He’s a black-hearted one, if ever there was one, I know.”

“Now, you don’t know anything of the kind, old girl.”

“Oh, yes, I do, Jo-si-ah. I always feel it whenever he comes anigh one, and if I had a child of my own, and that man had come and wanted to marry her, I’d have cut her up in little pieces and scattered them all about the garden first.”

“Well, then, I suppose I ought to be very, very glad that we never had any little ones, for, though I should be very glad to get rid of you – ”

“No, you wouldn’t, Jo-si-ah,” said Mrs Barclay, showing her white teeth.

“Yes, I should, but I shouldn’t have liked to see you hung for murder.”

“Don’t talk like that, Jo-si-ah. It gives me the shivers. That word makes me think about old Lady Teigne, and not being safe in my bed.”

“Stuff and nonsense!”

“It isn’t stuff and nonsense, Jo-si-ah. I declare, ever since that dreadful affair, I never see a bolster without turning cold all down my back; and I feel as if it wasn’t safe to put my head upon my pillow of a night. There: he’s ringing because you’re so long.”

“Then I shall be longer,” growled Barclay, putting a wafer in his mouth.

“How that poor Claire Denville can stop in that house of a night I don’t know.”

“Ah, that puts me in mind of something: I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of that Claire Denville.”

“Why not? I must be fond of somebody.”

“Be fond of me, then, I’m ugly enough.”

“So I am fond of you, Jo-si-ah, and you are not ugly, and I should like to hear anyone say you were to my face.”

“I don’t like that Denville lot.”

“No more do I, Jo-si-ah, only poor dear Claire. Her father ain’t bad, but she’s as good as gold.”

“I don’t know so much about that,” muttered Barclay.

“And now, Jo-si-ah, just you be careful with that Major Rockley. He owes you a lot now.”

“Yes, but I’ve got him tight enough.”

“And if you let him have more you get him tighter. He’s a bold, bad man, always gambling and drinking, and doing worse.”

“Oh, I’m very fond of him, old lady,” said Barclay, chuckling. “I love him like a son, and – there he is again. I must go now.”

It was only into the next room, but there were double doors, and as Barclay entered the Major’s countenance did not look at all handsome, but very black and forbidding.

“Come, Barclay,” he cried, with a smile; “I thought you were going to put me off. Here, I’ve been hard hit again. I’m as poor as Job, and I must have a hundred.”

For answer Barclay shrugged his shoulders, took out a fat pocket-book, and began to draw out the tuck.

“Put that away,” cried the Major impatiently; and he gave the book a flick with his riding-whip, but not without cutting right across Barclay’s fingers, and making a red mark.

The money-lender did not even wince, but he mentally made a mark against his client’s name, intimating that the cut would have to be paid for some day or another.

“I know all about that. I’ve had five hundred of you during the past two months. Never mind that; the luck must turn sometime. Cards have been dead against me lately. That Mellersh has the most extraordinary luck; but I shall have him yet, and we’ll soon be square again. Come, I want a hundred.”

“When?”

“Now, man, now.”

“Can’t be done, Major, really.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, man. I tell you I must have it.”

“Your paper’s getting bad, Major. Too much of it in the market.”

“Look here, Barclay; do you want to insult me?”

“Not I, sir; never thought of such a thing.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I mean? Only that you’ve had five hundred pounds of my money during these last three months.”

“For which you hold bills for seven hundred and fifty.”

“You put down five hundred pounds now in Bank of England notes, Major Rockley, and you shall have the lot.”

“Then you do mean to insult me, sir?”

“No, Major.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Only that I won’t part with another five-pound note till I get some of that money back.”

Major Rockley’s dark brows came down over his eyes as he glared at Barclay with a peculiarly vindictive expression, while the money-lender thrust his hands deep down into his drab breeches’ pockets, and whistled softly.

“I shall not forget this, Barclay,” he said slowly, and, turning upon his heels, he walked out of the place beating his boot viciously with his whip.

“Oh, the monster!” cried Mrs Barclay, entering the room.

“Why, you’ve been listening.”

“Well, didn’t you leave the door open on purpose for me to listen, Jo-si-ah? Oh, what a bad, evil-looking man, Jo-si-ah. I believe he wouldn’t stop at anything to get money from you now.”

“Black mask and a pair of pistols, on a dark night in a country road, eh, old lady? Stand and deliver; money or your life, eh?”

“Well, you may laugh, Jo-si-ah; but he looks just the sort of man who wouldn’t stop at anything. I am glad you wouldn’t let him have any money, for I’m sure you’d never get it back.”

“I don’t know so much about that, old lady, but whether or no, I wasn’t going to let him have any this morning. He has been short lately, and no mistake. Some one I know’s making a nice thing out of them at the mess.”

“Colonel Mellersh?”

“Mum!”

“Oh, there’s no one to hear us now. But, I say, Jo-si-ah, why is he so friendly with Miss Clode?”

“Because she sells packs of cards, old girl.”

“Ah, but there’s something more than that. I went in there one day, and he had hold of her hand across the counter; and I could see, though she turned it off, that she had been crying.”

“Asking her to wed, and let him succeed to the business,” said Barclay, with a chuckle.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Jo-si-ah. I wish I had a good, clear head like you, and was as clever, and then perhaps I could make this out.”

“What?”

“About Miss Clode. I’m sure she has seen better days.”

“That she has,” said Barclay, chuckling. “She looks pretty shabby now, a newsy, gossiping old hag!”

“I don’t dislike Miss Clode,” said Mrs Barclay thoughtfully. “There’s much worse in Saltinville.”

“I dare say,” he said, laughing. “I’ve only one thing against her.”

“What’s that?”

“She hates poor Claire Denville like poison.”

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Seven.
Fisherman Dick Stares

Major Rockley had counted upon getting a hundred pounds from Barclay, and the refusal annoyed him to so great an extent that he determined upon having a sharp walk to calm himself. So setting off at a good rate towards the main cliff to reach the downs beyond the town, he had not gone far before he saw a graceful figure, in a white dress, with black scarf and plain straw bonnet going in the same direction.

“Claire Denville as I’m a sinner!” he cried, his pale cheeks flushing, and a curious light shining in his dark eyes.

“Yes, without doubt,” he muttered. “Off for a walk to the downs. Lucky accident. At last!”

He checked himself, walking slowly, so as not to overtake her until she was well out of the town, and thinking that perhaps it would be as well to keep back until she turned, and then meet her face to face.

“The jade! How she has kept me at a distance. Refused my notes, and coquetted with me to make me more eager for the pursuit. The old man’s lessons have not been thrown away. I’m to approach in due form, I suppose. Well, we shall see.”

Claire went straight on, walking pretty quickly, and without turning her head to right or left. The streets were left behind; the row of houses facing the sea had come to an end; and she was getting amongst the fishermen’s cottages, while below the cliff the fishing boats were drawn high up on the shingle, and long, brown filmy nets spread out to dry, looking like square shadows cast by invisible sails, and mingled with piles of tarred barrels, lobster baskets, and brown ropes, bladders and corks.

Every here and there, on the railing at the cliff edge, hung oilskins to soften in the sunshine, and in one place a giant appeared to be sitting astride the rail, with nothing to be seen of him but a huge pair of boots. Farther on fish were drying in the air, and farther still there came up a filmy cloud of grey smoke from the shingle, along with a pleasant smell of Stockholm tar, for Fisherman Dick was busy paying the bottom of a boat turned upside down below the cliff.

These matters did not interest Major Rockley any more than the grey gulls that wheeled overhead and descended, to drop with a querulous cry upon a low spit of shingle where the sea was retiring fast.

For the fluttering white dress took up all his attention, and now that they were well beyond the promenaders, he was about to hasten his steps – too impatient to wait until she turned – when he uttered an impatient oath, for Claire suddenly stopped by a cottage where a woman was sitting knitting a coarse blue garment and nursing a little child.

It was all so sudden that it took the officer by surprise. The woman jumped up hastily on being spoken to, and curtseyed, and they went in at once, leaving the Major by the rails.

“Well, I can wait,” he said, smiling and taking out his cigar-case. “I can study the tarring of boats till her ladyship appears.”

He slowly chose and lit a cigar, and then, going close to the edge of the cliff, leaned upon the rails and gazed down at Fisherman Dick, who was working away busily, dipping his brush in a little three-legged iron pot, and carefully spreading the dark-brown odorous tar.

He was about forty feet below the Major, and for some time he went on steadily with his work, but all at once he stopped short, and turned his face upwards as if he felt that he was being watched; and as he did so his straw hat fell off and he stood fixed by the Major’s eyes as if unable to move.

The sensation was mutual, for Major Rockley felt attracted by the dark, Spanish-looking face, and the keen eyes so intently fixed upon his.

“Confound the fellow! how he stares,” said the Major, at last, as he seemed to wrench himself away, and turned his back.

As he did so, leaning against the rail, Dick Miggles drew a long breath, stared now at his iron tar-kettle, and carried it to the fire of old wreck-wood to re-heat it, as he stood by and thoughtfully scratched his head.

He looked up for a moment, and saw that the Major’s back was towards him, and then bent over his kettle again, and began pushing half-burned scraps of wood beneath, making the fire roar and the pitch heat quickly, and he did not look up again till the Major had walked away, when he began to brush again at the boat as if relieved, ending by giving one leg a tremendous slap, and stopping short as if to think.

The Major had some time to wait, and he passed a good deal of it walking up and down, as if watching a sail in the offing, till fortune favoured him; so that as he was approaching the cottage again, Claire came out quickly, and, seeing him, started and turned to walk in the other direction, out on the downs and round by the London Road into the town.

She repented on the instant, and wished that she had faced him boldly and passed on. But she was excited and confused by her visit, which had to her a curious suggestion of wrong-doing in it; and she was leaving the place, feeling agitated and guilty, when, seeing the Major, she had turned sharply to walk on, trembling, and hoping that he had not seen her. The hope died out on the instant, for she heard his steps, with the soft clink, clink of the rowels of his spurs; but he kept his distance till they were well beyond the cottages, and then rapidly closed up.

What would he think of her visit there? What would he say? were the questions Claire asked herself as she walked rapidly on to reach the stile that bounded the cornfield she would have to turn into and cross to get into the London Road; and all the time, clink, clink – clink, clink, those spurs rang on her ears, and came nearer and nearer.

The stile at last; and, trembling with eagerness, she was about to cross, when the Major passed her quickly, leaped over, and turned smilingly to face her with:

“Allow me, my dear Miss Denville. We meet at last.”

End of Volume One

Volume Two – Chapter One.
An Officer and a Gentleman

Claire shrank back for a moment, and her natural womanly timidity urged her to turn and hurry home by the way she had come.

But that would be showing Major Rockley that she was afraid of him, and this she wished to keep a secret in her own breast.

Bowing slightly, then, she declined the offer of his hand, stepped over the stile, and went on.

With anyone else Rockley would have felt bound to retire, but he only laughed. Claire was the daughter of the poor minister of fashion, who lived by the fees and offerings he received from new-comers; and he did not feel himself called upon to treat her as a lady.

“Why, my dear Miss Denville,” he said, laughing, “what have I done that you should try to cut me like this? I am ignorant. Come, shake hands.”

He held his out, as he walked by her side, and she turned upon him a look full of indignation.

“Are you not making a mistake, sir?” she said coldly.

“Mistake? No. My dear Claire, why do you treat me like this? How absurd it is to refuse my letters, and play coquette when we meet. Here have I been watching for such an opportunity as this for weeks.”

Claire’s eyes flashed at his assumption, but she made no reply, and walked on.

“How can you be so absurd,” he whispered, as he kept pace with her step for step, “when you know how I love you?”

“Major Rockley!” she cried, stopping short and facing him, “by what right do you insult me like this?”

“How beautiful she is!” he said in a low tone.

Claire bit her lips, and, divining that he was disposed to treat her as one in an entirely different rank of life, she hurried on along the path, with the tall corn waving on either side, trembling with dread and indignation, as she realised that he was behaving to her as he might to some servant-girl.

“Say what you like to me. Be angry. Punish me. I cannot help it,” he whispered. “Your beauty maddens me, as it has done all these weary months, and I must speak to you now.”

“Major Rockley, I am alone and unprotected. I ask you, as a gentleman, to leave me.”

“And as an officer and a gentleman I would leave you, but my passion masters me. Sweet Claire, whom I love so dearly, how can you be so cruel and so hard?”

He tried to take her hand, but she shrank from him and turned back.

“No, no, little one, you are not going to serve me like that!” he cried, darting before her. “Come, how can you be so absurd?” he whispered. “We are quite alone. No one can see our meeting, and yet you are trifling with me, and wasting golden moments. You know I love you.”

“Once more, Major Rockley, will you leave me? You insult me by staying.”

“No, I will not leave you,” he whispered excitedly; “and I do not insult you.”

“I am alone now, sir, but I have a father – brothers, who shall call you to account for this!” she cried, with her eyes full of indignation.

“Don’t,” he whispered imploringly. “You make your eyes flash and your face light up in a way that drives me frantic. Claire, if you speak to me like that again, I shall risk being seen, and take you to my heart to cover those lips with kisses. No, no; don’t shrink away; only be gentle with me, and talk sensibly. Let us be closer friends, dear. Come, let there be an end to all this coy nonsense. There, we understand one another now. That’s better.”

He seized her hand, and drew it through his arm; but, with a display of strength that he had not expected, she snatched it away, and stood pale with anger and indignation.

She hurried forward the next moment, but he laughingly kept at her side.

Claire turned and retreated, but he was still there; and, choking down her sobs, she walked as fast as she could towards the stile she had crossed.

It seemed evident to her that the Major must know the reason for her visit to the fisherman’s cottage, or he would never have dared to treat her with such bold insolence; and as she walked on he kept close beside her, pressing his suit in the most daringly insulting manner, while she ceased her protests now, and walked on in silence.

“It is the only way to deal with her,” he said to himself; “and, after this outburst to keep up appearances, we shall be on the best of terms.”

Claire had gone farther in her excitement than she had thought possible, and it seemed now that she would never reach the stile. Beyond that, there might be people who would help her; and in any case, the fishermen’s cottages were not many hundred yards away.

In spite of her silence, the Major kept on his passionate addresses and protestations, pleading his inability to obtain a hearing from her before; and at last, irritated by her silence, he caught her by the arm and held it fast.

“No, no; you are not going yet,” he said, speaking angrily. “What sort of a man do you take me for, that you play with me like this?”

“Major Rockley, will you loose my arm?”

“Claire Denville, will you promise to meet me to-night where I will name?”

“I am a defenceless woman, sir, and this is an insult – an outrage. Will you loose my arm?”

“You are a cruel coquette,” he cried passionately. “Is this your treatment, after the months of glances you have given me to lure me on?”

“Will you loose my arm, sir?”

“Will you be a sensible girl?” he whispered. “How can you be so absurd? Look about you: we are too far off for anyone to see who we are, and if they could see us, why should we care? What is the world to us? Come, Claire, my darling.”

He tried to draw her towards him, but she struggled to get free and reach the stile in the tall hedge that separated them from the bare downs beyond.

The tears of rage and indignation were in Claire’s eyes as she felt her helplessness, and saw how thoroughly she was in Rockley’s power. There seemed to be nothing she could do but scream for help, and from that she shrank.

Turning suddenly upon him, with her eyes flashing, she exclaimed:

“Major Rockley! as a gentleman I ask you to cease this cowardly pursuit.”

“Claire Denville, as the woman I adore and have set my mind to win, I ask you to cease this silly heroic nonsense. My dear child, is it to make terms?”

She snatched her hand by an angry movement from his grasp, and reached the stile; but he was too quick for her, catching her and drawing her back to clasp her in his arms.

“You shall not say I wasted my opportunity,” he whispered. “If I am to be punished by you, it shall be for something more than words. This kiss is to be the first of millions that you shall pay me back, and – Curse the fellow!”

There was a quick step, a hand was laid on the stile, and Richard Linnell vaulted over, white with jealous anger. For, coming along the downs, he had seen Claire cross the stile, followed by Rockley, and, half mad with rage, he had gazed at them for a moment or two, and then, feeling that all was over, and that there was no more love for him in the world, since the woman he had worshipped could be so light as to make appointments with the greatest libertine in the town, he walked straight back for the parade.

It was all plain enough; there had been an understanding between Claire and the Major, and hence that serenade. But for the horrible accident that night Claire would have come to the window and answered to the musical call.

What a boyish, childish idiot he had been: dreaming always of a vain, weak, frivolous woman, whom he had in his blind idolatry endowed with all the beauties and virtues of her sex.

“Well,” he said with a scornful laugh, “I ought to have known how artificial she would be. Like father, like daughter; but it is cruel, cruel work.”

He laughed bitterly.

“What an idiot I am!” he cried angrily. “A boy in such matters – a child. Well, it is a lesson. I might have known that she would be as ready to receive attentions as her sister, and now I may go, and console myself by making love to the handsome actress who is ready to make love to me.”

“Another actress,” he said aloud, as he strode on with his jealous anger up to boiling-point, his face flushed, and his teeth set fast.

“Liar!” he exclaimed. “Fool! Idiot again! I will not believe it. Claire Denville is too true and sweet to listen to a man like that.”

He turned and went back faster than he had come, but he had walked some distance, and the return journey gave him time to cool a little and to ask himself whether he was going to watch – to act the eavesdropper – and whether this was a manly part to play.

His indecision increased as he approached the down side of the stile, and he was about to turn and retreat when an excited voice, speaking loudly, sent a thrill through him, and running to the opening he leaped over into the cornfield.

At the sight of Linnell, Claire, who had been up to now strong and heroic, grew feeble and helpless.

“Mr Linnell! Help!” she cried, as she struggled to reach him; and as Rockley, white with fury at the interruption, loosed his hold, Richard Linnell was upon him, striking him a blow full in the chest, which sent him staggering back to fall amongst the corn.

Linnell would have followed, but he caught sight of Claire tottering towards the stile, and he turned to help her, but Rockley had sprung up and, with a hoarse cry of rage, struck at Linnell with his riding-whip, the plaited whalebone falling upon his cheek, and making a weal right across his face.

Major Rockley had better have restrained his rage, for in an instant that blow transformed Richard Linnell, the calm and quiet, into a savage.

He turned round with a roar more than a cry, and sprang upon Rockley; there was a fierce struggle, ending in the riding-whip being torn from its owner’s grasp, and for the space of a couple of minutes there was the sound of the lash cutting through the air, and the blows that fell upon the tight undress uniform.

No words were uttered, but there was the scuffling of feet, the hoarse panting of excited men, and the corn was trampled down.

“There,” cried Linnell at last, flinging Rockley from him, and throwing the whip in his face, “dog and coward! You have had the thrashing you deserved. Strike me again if you dare.”

Major Rockley picked up the whip, and brushed the dust from his uniform. He strove hard to make his convulsed face smooth and to force a smile, while he mastered the desire to writhe and utter impatient cries, so keen was the agony he felt.

“No,” he said, in a low hissing whisper, “you are a stronger man than I, and when we meet again it shall be on equal terms.”

He accompanied his words with a vindictive look that told Richard Linnell plainly enough how they would encounter next.

He repressed a shudder, and then a pang that seemed to pierce his heart shot through him, for with a malicious smile Rockley said:

“I did not know the lady had made an appointment with you. Of course, she had to keep up appearances. But there: I’ll say no more.”

He raised his cap mockingly, and went off across the cornfield, leaving Richard Linnell stung to the heart, his brow knit, and his eyes fixed upon Claire, who, white as ashes, and her face convulsed by the agony within her breast, crouched where she had sunk upon the lower steps of the stile.

Volume Two – Chapter Two.
“Impossible!”

“Claire – Miss Denville,” cried Richard Linnell, mastering the cruel thoughts suggested by Rockley’s words, “how dared that scoundrel insult you like this!”

“Hush!” said Claire agitatedly. “Don’t – pray don’t speak to me. I cannot bear it.”

“You are ill. You are faint. Let me help you over these bars and get you to one of the cottages.”

“No; I shall be better directly. Don’t speak to me now.”

She bent down, covered her face with her hands, and the tears came now in a passionate burst, while he went down on his knee beside her, laid one hand upon her arm, and, his doubts and suspicions all driven away by her grief, tried to whisper words of comfort as he bade her be calm.

Major Rockley had walked with jaunty military stride for the first two or three hundred yards with assumed calmness; then he gave vent to his rage in a torrent of oaths, and strode on rapidly out of sight, beating the air fiercely with his whip, and leaving the fields clear of his presence as Richard Linnell knelt by the sobbing girl.

“Miss Denville – Claire,” he said again, as he now possessed himself of her hand, while in his anger and remorse at having doubted her he poured forth his words in quick, excited tones.

“I had not thought to speak to you like this, and at such a time, but I cannot bear to see you weep – it cuts me to the heart, for I love you – Claire, dear Claire, I love you dearly as man can love.”

“Oh, hush, hush!” she moaned piteously, weak now with her emotion and the scene she had gone through.

“I must speak now,” he went on. “I have no opportunities of seeing you and telling you all I feel. Claire, I would have come and asked permission to address you, but I have been obliged to feel that my presence was not welcome to Mr Denville, and you – you have been so cold and distant to me of late.”

She did not speak, but kept one hand to her bent-down face, while he held the other tightly clasped in his.

“You do not speak,” he whispered. “Claire – you are not angry? I have suffered so – there, I confess – such jealous thoughts, such bitter cruel thoughts, though I had no right – no claim upon your love. But now, forgive me – only tell me – there was nothing between you and that man?”

She raised her head quickly, and dropped her hand.

“You ask me that!” she said proudly.

“Forgive me. You would if you knew all. I felt that you had come to meet him, and I was tortured with these jealous doubts, but I would not believe, and I came, as you saw. And now, Claire, one word – my love!”

Her eyes half closed as he drew her towards him; her lips trembled, and her colour went and came. Then, as if her memory, that had been veiled for the moment, tore aside the film of forgetfulness, she thrust him from her, and, with a look of anguish in her eyes, started to her feet.

“No, no!” she cried with a shiver; “it is impossible!”

“Hush! don’t say that,” he whispered. “Claire, I could not bear it. I know I am not well-to-do, but I love you. I cannot offer you a rich home, but I give you a love that is wholly yours. Don’t – don’t refuse me – don’t make me think that you despise me.”

“No, no, it is not that,” she sobbed wildly. “You must not speak to me. It is impossible.”

“Impossible?” he cried, holding her hands tightly.

“Yes, impossible.”

“No,” he said with a quiet smile, “it is not impossible. You will grow to the knowledge by-and-by that there is one who lives for your sake, whose every thought is yours, and these little obstacles will melt away when you know me as I am. Claire, I only ask for a little hope – to go away with the thought that I have no rival for your love.”

“Don’t speak to me – don’t think of me again!” she cried, with a wild look in her face. “Heaven bless you, Mr Linnell! Think well of me, whatever comes, but all that is over now.”

“Over? No, no; don’t say that. Claire – my love!”

He still held her hands in his, and as their eyes met her lips quivered, and her sweet face was drawn with anguish. It was a hard fight, but she conquered, and tearing herself away, she crossed the stile, and he saw her with bent head hurrying towards her home.

“It is impossible – impossible,” he muttered, as he stood leaning against the stile. “No; she may say that a thousand times, but I shall hold to my faith, and this affair will give me strength.”

He walked slowly homeward, dreaming for a time of Claire’s anguished face, and then the sight of a uniform brought back the thought of the Major, and the punishment he had received.

“Will he resent it?” he asked himself.

The answer was awaiting him later on at home, where he encountered Cora Dean just going out for a drive.

The pony-carriage was at the door, and there was nothing for it but to hand the ladies in, Mrs Dean receiving the attention with a most ungracious look, while Cora smiled and looked flushed and pleased as she drove off, with Sir Harry Payne, in Colonel Mellersh’s room, watching her with admiring eyes.

“Won’t be long, you know. Very kind of you to see me about it; as it’s his father he lives with,” said Sir Harry. “Handsome woman that, Colonel. Precious unfortunate, all this. I say, how lucky you were at the tables last night. Very handsome woman that. Ever act now, do you know?”

“Every day,” said Colonel Mellersh drily. “Here, I’ll ask Linnell to step in.”

Volume Two – Chapter Three.
No Better than a Fiddler

“But you can’t fight a fellow like that, Rockley,” said Sir Harry, who had been summoned to his brother-officer’s room.

“Not fight him? I’ll fight him, and kill him.”

“But he’s only a fiddler.”

“Enough of the gentleman for my purpose, I tell you,” roared Rockley fiercely. “I’ll kill him.”

“Nonsense, man alive. If you must meet, wing him, or pink him, or spoil the blackguard’s good looks. You can’t kill a man!”

“Can’t kill a man!” said the Major, in a low hissing voice; “can’t kill a man!”

“I say, Rockley! Hang it all, don’t look the diabolical like that: you give me the cold shivers. Why, I wouldn’t be called out by you on any consideration.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Rockley, with a ghastly attempt at mirth. “Did I look queer?”

“Queer? You looked queer multiplied ten thousand times. Why, Rockley, one of you with a face like that would scare a regiment of French cuirassiers. I say, what was the row about – a woman?”

“Curse her!” cried Rockley, flashing out into uncontrolled rage again, as he writhed with mental and bodily pain. “I’ll bring her to her senses for this. Treat me as if I were some gawky boy, to be held off and coaxed on, and then bidden to keep my distance!”

“What girl was it?”

“Curse you! don’t ask questions.”

“Bah! What a fire-eater you are, Rockley. As if I did not know. So the fairy Clairy has been saying, ‘How dare you, sir?’ Ha – ha – ha!”

“Do you want to quarrel, man?” said the Major, with an angry look in his eye.

“Not I, old lad; not with you in that temper. So she has been riding the high horse, and bidding you keep your distance; and, just in the nick of time, she had her dear friend Dick Linnell there, and the strong-armed fool horsewhipped you.”

Rockley turned upon him savagely, and gripped him by the arm so fiercely that Sir Harry Payne involuntarily shrank away.

“Don’t!” cried the Major hoarsely. “Don’t! or I can’t answer for myself.”

“Why, Rockley!”

“Don’t speak to me. Man, I feel as if that Linnell had roused a devil in me, and till I see him on the turf helpless I shall know no rest. Were you ever beaten – cut – and wealed with your own whip?”

“Well, egad, not to put too fine a point on it, old lad, it was not with a whip; it was a walking cane.”

“And did it cut deep down into your very soul, and make you feel as if nothing but blood would heal the pain?”

“Well, egad, no. It hurt a good deal, but I was obliged to pocket it all. Lady’s husband was a bit put out, you see. But that’s a long time ago. And do you really mean to fight?”

“Fight? If I don’t I shall lie in wait for the scoundrel and shoot him like a dog.”

“You couldn’t do that, my dear Rockley. Behaviour unworthy of an officer and a gentleman.”

“And as for that woman,” continued Rockley, striding up and down the room as if he were some savage beast confined in a cage, “my God! she shall smart for this!”

“My dear Rockley,” said Sir Harry, “you went the wrong way to work.”

“Silence, idiot!” roared the Major fiercely. “You would, of course, have won. She would have gone down on her knees to you. You are so handsome – so irresistible. Oh, damn it! No one could withstand you!”

“Sneer away, old fellow. I’m not going to boast,” said Sir Harry with a quiet, self-satisfied smile. “I’m not the man to kiss and tell; but – never mind.”

“Go on and settle that at once. No shirking; no excuses, mind. He shall meet me, and then – ”

“Then – poor devil!” murmured Sir Harry Payne, as he sauntered out of the room and away across the parade ground. “What a temper he has! By George! if he were little May’s husband I’m afraid I should be disposed to abdicate in favour of some one, who might flirt to his heart’s content for me.

“Now what’s to be done? Shall I tell the Colonel? No. Wouldn’t do. The matter must go on. He’ll be cooler when they meet, and it will only mean a wing or a leg. That’s all.”

He went jauntily down to the parade, and exchanged pinches of snuff with old Lord Carboro’, who looked after him and muttered, “Fashionable fool! I wonder how much he owes Barclay. I must see. Clode tells me things are going too far, and I’m not going to have some one’s fair fame smirched through that idiot. A few months in a debtor’s prison would do him good.”

In happy ignorance of the remarks made behind his back, Sir Harry Payne went on to the house on the Parade, and Lord Carboro’ trotted off, snuff-box in hand, slightly uneasy in mind, but at rest compared to what he would have been had he known of the encounter that had taken place, and of Sir Harry Payne’s mission.

Richard Linnell had not returned, so Sir Harry bethought himself of Colonel Mellersh, found him at home, began chatting with him concerning cards, and the company staying in the place, firmly resolved not to give the Colonel a hint about his mission – and in ten minutes he had told him all.

“Tut – tut – tut!” ejaculated the Colonel. “I’m very sorry. About Claire Denville, you say?”

“Egad, Mellersh, what a fellow you are! You pump a man dry. Well, yes. Rockley’s dead on her. You remember the serenade?”

“Ah, yes; that horrible night!”

“Well, he’s a close fellow, as a rule, about his amours, but he raves about that girl.”

“Had she gone to meet him?”

“I don’t know; suppose so. Then the other lover comes; and it’s tom-cats.”

“They came to blows!”

“Blows?” said Sir Harry, bending forward and taking the Colonel by a button: “as far as I can make out, Linnell took his riding-whip from him, and he is lashed from head to foot.”

“And all about that girl of Denville’s,” said the Colonel, with a contemptuous look.

“Yes. But, my dear boy, you must own that she is devilishly handsome.”

“Oh yes, she’s handsome enough. Then the affair is serious?”

“Serious?” said Sir Harry, lowering his voice. “Rockley swears he’ll kill him.”

Colonel Mellersh looked very grave.

“They’ll have to meet, then?”

“Meet, my dear sir! Rockley says he’ll lie in wait for him and shoot him like a dog if he doesn’t come out. Fancy, you know, beaten like that before a lady!”

“And such a lady as Claire Denville,” said Colonel Mellersh, with a sneer. “Well,” he added, changing his manner, “I’m very sorry.”

“Yes, so am I. Rockley’s deuced haughty, and bullying, and overbearing, particularly lately – things seem to have gone wrong with him – but he’s not a bad fellow.”

“As men go,” said the Colonel with a sneer.

“Exactly – as men go,” replied Sir Harry, whose brains were not very analytical as regarded double entendre.

Just then Richard Linnell reached the door, encountered Cora Dean, and was finally beckoned into Colonel Mellersh’s room.

“My dear Linnell,” said the Colonel gravely, as the others exchanged distant bows, “Sir Harry Payne has called on behalf of Major Rockley – as his friend.”

He watched Linnell’s face intently, but there was only a slight contraction of the brows.

“Bravo!” said the Colonel to himself. “He’s staunch.”

“Mellersh,” said Linnell gravely, “I have no friend to whom I can appeal but you in a case like this.”

“I would far rather leave it,” said Colonel Mellersh slowly; “but perhaps if you leave the affair in my hands, Sir Harry Payne and I may be able to arrange for a peaceful issue. Major Rockley may be ready to withdraw or apologise.”

“S’death, sir!” cried Sir Harry; “apologise for being horsewhipped!”

“I beg pardon,” said the Colonel. “You see, I am not properly acquainted with the matter.”

“There can be no apology, Colonel Mellersh,” said Linnell, with a grave dignity that made the Colonel’s eyes light up. “I leave myself in your hands, and I shall be most grateful.”

“But – ”

“I need say no more,” said the young man. “Of course, I know what Sir Harry Payne’s visit means, and I am ready when and where you will.”

He bowed and left the room with all the formality of the time; and when, about a quarter of an hour later, Sir Harry Payne went away, the young officer uttered a contemptuous sneer.

“’Pon my soul,” he muttered, “it is horribly degrading for Rockley. The fellow really is no better than a fiddler after all.”

Volume Two – Chapter Four.
A Lesson in Pistol Practice

The reason for Sir Harry Payne’s sneering remark was patent to Colonel Mellersh as soon as he opened the door, for from the Linnells’ rooms came the sweet harmonies of a couple of exquisitely-played violins, and for a few minutes the Colonel seemed to forget the trouble on hand, as he stood with his face softened, and one delicate hand waving to the rhythm of the old Italian music.

“Poor lad!” he said, as his face changed, and a look of pain crossed his brow. “And for her, too. Weak, foolish lad! He’s infatuated – as we all are at some time or other in our lives.”

He stood in his doorway, thoughtful, and with brow knit.

“That chattering pie will spread it all over the town. Clode will get to know, and then – well, we must take care.”

He crossed the hall, tapped lightly on the opposite door, and then entered.

“Bravo – bravo!” he cried, clapping his delicate white hands. “Admirable!”

“Ah, Mellersh, come and join us,” said the elder Linnell, raising his glasses on to his forehead. “Just in time for a trio.”

“No, no, not to-day. Impossible. My head is terrible this morning. Late hours – cards – strong coffee. I came to ask Dick here if he would be my companion for a six-mile walk to Shankley Wood.”

The elder Linnell looked from one to the other with a smile.

“Oh, I’m sure he will,” he said. “Eh, Dick?”

“Of course, father, of course.”

“And out all the morning, too! Well, well, fresh air for health.”

“Why don’t you get more then, Linnell?”

“I – I?” said the grave, elderly man slowly. “I don’t know. I don’t want fresh air. I’m very well as I am. I shall do for my time here.”

“Why, father,” said Richard merrily, as he clapped him on the shoulder, “what a tone to take.”

He exchanged a quick, agonised glance with Mellersh, and then proceeded to replace his violin and bow in the case.

“Come to me, Dick,” said the Colonel; “I want to go to my room:” and he went out, busied himself for a few minutes in his bedroom, and then came out again into the hall, to find Mrs Dean disappearing up the staircase, and Cora giving some orders to her little groom.

He waited till she turned and came towards him with a scornful look in her eyes.

“Well,” he said, in a low voice, and with a longing undertook in his eyes that he evidently tried to conceal, “how many poor fellows slain this morning?”

“How many are there here worth slaying?” she said, in the same low tone.

“A matter of taste,” he said, gravely. “A matter of taste, Miss Cora Dean.”

“Not one,” she said, giving him her hand in response to his own held out.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking very keenly in her eyes, “anger – love – jealousy.”

She snatched her hand away.

“Don’t fool!” she cried angrily. “I? Jealous?”

“Yes, you – jealous,” he said; and then as she hurried up the stairs, “and there would be another emotion to trouble you, Cora Dean, if you knew all that I know now. Ah, Dick! Ready?”

“Yes. Who was that, here?”

“Your fair enslaver – Cora Dean!”

Richard looked up at him keenly and laughed as they left the house, ignorant of the fact that Cora was watching them intently, and Mrs Dean was keeping up a running fire of comment on what she called her “gal’s foolery.”

Mellersh led the way at a good brisk pace along the parade, and they had not gone far before they became aware of the tall figure of the Master of the Ceremonies showing himself, as was his wont, king of the place apparently, and bowing and acknowledging bows.

Richard Linnell drew his breath with a slight hiss, but there was no avoiding the encounter, and as they drew near and raised their hats, there was a smile and most courteous bow for Colonel Mellersh, and the most distant of salutes for his companion.

“Old impostor,” said the Colonel, as they took the first turning and made for the country beyond the Downs.

“No,” said Richard Linnell gravely, “I don’t think him that. He is a gentleman at heart, fond of his children, and his ways are forced upon him by his position.”

“Fond of his children! Bah! As objects of merchandise. I tell you, Dick, I hate the man.”

“And when you hate a man you are unjust.”

“Not here. My dear Dick, you look at old Denville through rose-coloured glasses. Pah! I detest him, and, by Jove, sir, I don’t acquit him of some knowledge of that terrible affair at his house.”

“Colonel Mellersh!”

“My dear boy!”

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, and then, clear now of the town, Colonel Mellersh exclaimed:

“My dear Dick, you have always known my feelings regarding this unfortunate attachment.”

“Yes,” said the young man sadly.

“She is very beautiful, but see how she has been brought up. Look at her sister – a weak, vain, foolish child more than a married woman, about whom there is bound to be some scandal soon.”

“Can the sister help that?”

“Look at the brother; that careless young ne’er-do-weel, who is to be trained up in his father’s steps.”

“Poverty seems to be their greatest sin,” replied Richard quietly.

“Then, there is another son, who quarrelled with the father and went off and enlisted. My dear Dick, is such a family one that you ought to enter?”

“My dear Colonel,” said Richard with a sad smile, “I do not seem likely to enter it. You saw the look old Denville gave me. But, for heaven’s sake, don’t throw out hints again about that murder.”

“Very well, but you must promise me that there shall be an end to all this infatuation. I speak as your father’s oldest and dearest friend, and as one who feels as if he had a share in you – you reckless wild young scapegrace.”

“I can promise nothing,” said Richard coldly.

“Not now that you have been dragged into this serious affair?”

“Miss Denville has dragged me into no serious affair. Her conduct to me has always been that of a refined and modest lady.”

“My dear boy! Have you forgotten that this has been going on between her and Rockley for months?”

“There is nothing between Major Rockley and Miss Denville,” said Richard hoarsely; and his cheeks began to burn and his eyes to flash.

“Dick! Have you forgotten the serenade that night?”

“Have I forgotten it!” cried Richard fiercely.

“Well, what does that show?”

“That this scoundrel – this roué– this libertine – dared to cast his vile eyes on as sweet and pure a girl as ever breathed. Look here, Colonel Mellersh – no, no – my dear old friend – I found that dog insulting Miss Denville.”

“Where?”

“Away there, beyond the Downs, out past the fishermen’s cottages.”

“How came Claire Denville out there alone with one of the wildest officers at the barracks?”

“Heaven knows,” cried Richard. “I tell you I found him grossly insulting her, and I took the dog’s whip from him, and thrashed him till my arm ached.”

“And the lady flung herself into your arms, called you her gallant, her brave preserver, and you embraced and swore fidelity, while the wicked villain, the dog that you had thrashed, sneaked off snarling, with his tail between his legs.”

Richard turned upon him fiercely, but he checked his anger as he met the Colonel’s mocking eyes.

“You do not know Claire Denville,” he said coldly.

“But, Dick, lad, come – there was the embracing and thanks?”

“Miss Denville is a sweet, true lady,” said Richard, “whom I fear I may never win.”

“Never win!” said the Colonel mockingly. “Dick, Dick, what a child you are! I used, a year or two back, to be glad you were so different to the other men here; but now I almost regret that you have not led a faster life. You are such an innocent boy.”

“Shall we turn back?” said Richard abruptly.

“Turn back, man, no. We have not said a word yet about your meeting. Don’t be angry with me, lad. Believe me, I am one of your truest friends.”

“I know it,” cried Richard warmly; “but don’t talk of my love affair. We shall never agree till the scales of prejudice have dropped from your eyes.”

“Till the scales of a boyish folly have dropped from yours, Dick. Well, we shall be in accord some day. If I’m wrong I’ll humbly ask your pardon.”

“And if I’m wrong I will yours,” cried Richard. “Now, then, what of Payne’s visit?”

“You will have to meet the Major,” said the Colonel gravely.

“Yes, I suppose so. He could not forgive such an insult as that.”

“You treat it very lightly, Dick. The consequences may be very grave.”

“I hope not,” said Richard. “I am not a soldier, but I am not going to show the white feather, even if I wear it in my heart.”

“Not you,” said the Colonel, as he tapped his companion on the shoulder. “But I should have liked you to be fighting on account of some other lady.”

“And I should not,” cried Richard. “Is this likely to be serious?”

“I should be no true friend to you, my lad, if I concealed the truth from you. It may be very serious.”

“For me?”

“I don’t say that.”

“But I never fired a pistol in my life, and I fence horribly.”

“It will be pistols, Dick. I arranged that it should be. But you will be cool?”

“I hope I shall be just as I am now,” said Richard calmly.

The Colonel looked at him intently, but no nerve showed a tremor.

“A good walk will do you good,” he said, and after telling him the preliminaries, and the place where they were to meet, the conversation was changed and they walked slowly on till the edge of the Downs was reached, and they soon after entered an extensive wood, walking down a leafy glade where all seemed wonderfully peaceful, and its solemnity was so soothing to Richard Linnell that he was about to throw himself upon the turf when Colonel Mellersh stopped short, and pointing to a gnarled beech of stunted growth, exclaimed:

“That will do exactly.”

“Do?” said Linnell. “Do for what?”

“Why, my dear boy, do you suppose I have brought you out here for nothing? No; since the abominable code for furbishing up injured honour exists, and a man may be called out, it is our duty to prepare for emergencies. You cannot use a pistol?”

“No,” said Richard, shaking his head.

“I can. I have been out six times, and I’m going to show you how to hit your man and save yourself.”

“I don’t want to hit Major Rockley.”

“But I want you to hit him and save yourself. My dear boy, you are worth five thousand Major Rockleys to your father, and we must not have you hurt.”

As he spoke, to Richard’s great surprise, he took out a brace of duelling pistols with flask and bullets, and after loading skilfully he took a few cards from his breast, and going to the stunted tree, tacked one on each of two boughs about on a level with a man’s outstretched arms, another on the trunk, and another higher still, where the head would be.

“I used to practise with the pistol a great deal at one time, Dick, and I could hit either of those address cards as many times as I liked.”

“Then I will not quarrel with you and call you out.”

“Don’t,” said the Colonel, handing him a pistol, and proceeding to step out fifteen paces. “There,” he said, “stand there and aim at that card on the trunk. That is where a man’s heart would be. I will count slowly, and when I come to three, raise your pistol quickly and fire.”

“One – two —three!”

Richard Linnell raised his pistol, and drew the trigger, but there was no report.

“It will not go off,” he said.

“No,” replied the Colonel; “pistols never will, unless you cock them.”

“Pish!” ejaculated Richard, repairing the omission. “Again.”

The Colonel counted once more; there was a flash, a sharp report, and a leaf or two fell from high up a tree to the right of the target.

“Take the other,” said the Colonel quietly; “hold it a little more firmly, and raise it slowly. The moment your eye glances straight along the barrel, press the trigger softly, so as not to jerk the pistol. Ready? Now – one – two —three!”

There was another sharp report, and the Colonel smiled.

“That’s better,” he said. “Your first bullet went over the enemy’s head twenty feet or so. That one would have him in the shoulder. Try again.”

The Colonel busied himself loading the pistols with all the quickness of an adept as his pupil fired, keeping him at it for quite a couple of hours, with intervals of rest. Now he made him fire at one card, then at another, practising as at his adversary’s arms, head, and body, till Richard looked at him wearily.

“Yes; that will do now,” said Colonel Mellersh. “You may congratulate yourself, Dick, upon being a horribly bad shot; but you will be able to handle your pistol properly, and raise it like a man who is used to the weapon.”

“What is the use of that,” said Richard, smiling, “if I cannot aim straight?”

“A great deal. If you had taken hold of your pistol in a bungling way to-morrow, Rockley would have felt that he had you at his mercy, and he would have been as cool as a fish. Now he will see that you know what a pistol is, and be perfectly ignorant of the fact that you are unskilful of aim. He will think he has a dangerous adversary before him, and be more likely nervous than cool.”

“I see,” said Richard, with his eyes lighting up. “I’ve had my turn at the scoundrel, and I’m satisfied. Of course I don’t want to hit him, but at the same time I don’t want him to hit me.”

“Oh!” said the Colonel drily, “I thought you did.”

“What! want him to hit me! Why?”

“You seemed so cool over it.”

“Oh, but I’m not,” said Richard gravely. “I suppose a good shot would hit one of those cards?”

“Time was, Dick, when I could have put half a dozen shots in either of them. I don’t know that I could hit one now.”

He raised the pistol he had been loading as he spoke, took a quick aim, and hit the centre card just on the edge, driving it into the bark of the tree.

“Bad!” he said. “Let’s try another.”

He aimed at the card representing the enemy’s right arm fired, and struck it also about a quarter of an inch from the edge.

“Out of practice, Dick,” he said, thrusting the pistols into their dark cloth bags, and replacing them in his pocket. “There, my lad, let’s get home. Dine lightly this evening, go to bed in good time, and have a long night’s rest.”

“When is the meeting?” said Richard calmly.

“At six to-morrow morning.”

“Where did you say?”

“On the sands, two miles out below the east cliff.”

“Why there?”

“We shall want an excuse for going out so early, my lad. We can be going to bathe, and so be unnoticed, and there will be no fear of an interruption,” said the Colonel grimly. “This is to be no play affair, Dick. An officer in His Majesty’s service cannot submit to a horse-whipping from a civilian without trying to get ample satisfaction.”

He looked at Richard with a grave air of pity in his countenance.

“Did you ever shoot a man?” said Richard, as they were walking briskly back.

“Do you mean wounded or killed?”

“The latter.”

“Once, Dick.”

The young man’s countenance contracted, and he looked at his companion almost in horror.

“Yes,” said the Colonel; “it is horrible, Dick, and the remembrance that the man was an utter scoundrel does not make the fact much less horrible after all these years.”

They walked on for some distance in silence, before Richard Linnell broke in upon his companion’s reverie.

“Was the duel about – a lady?”

The Colonel uttered a harsh laugh.

“It’s an arrangement of nature, my dear Ulysses,” he said. “If you see a couple of stags smashing their antlers, a couple of bulls goring each other, or two rams battering one another’s heads, a brace of pheasants or barn-door cocks pecking and spurring each other to death, what’s it about? A lady. The same with mankind, Dick; a duel is almost invariably more or less directly about a lady.”

Richard Linnell went on thoughtfully for a time, and then turned with a sad smile to the Colonel.

“So even you had to do battle once in such a cause?”

“Not exactly, Dick; it was upon another’s behalf. An utter scoundrel, just such a fellow as Rockley, did my best friend a mortal wrong. One day, Dick, it was a happy, peaceful home that I used to visit, where as sweet-natured, true, and gentle a man as ever breathed lived in happy trust and faith in his sweet young wife; the next there was a stain – an indelible stain – upon that hearth-stone, and my poor friend lay stricken down by the shock, and nearly died of the brain fever that ensued.”

Richard Linnell looked at him with a curious feeling of horror – he knew not why – troubling his breast.

“Do you want to know any more?” said the Colonel roughly.

“Yes; go on.”

“I did not see either of them for two years: the young wife or the scoundrel I had introduced to the house as my friend. Then I had a letter from the lady – a piteous, appealing letter to me to help her. She told me she was starving in London, Dick, and that the villain who had won her into leaving her home had forsaken her at the end of six months, and that, since then, she had been striving to get a living by teaching, but that now she was prostrate on a sick bed, helpless and alone.”

There was a few moments’ pause, and then the Colonel went on:

“I went to see her, Dick – poor, little, weak woman. Her good looks were gone, and she lay sick unto death for want of medical help and ordinary nutriment.”

The Colonel stopped again, for his mouth seemed dry, and he passed his tongue over his fevered lips before he went on.

“I did what was necessary, and went straight to the man who had done all this wrong. I told him everything, and that it was his duty to make some reparation at least by providing for the lady’s needs, and ensuring that she should not want in the future.”

“Well?” said Richard hoarsely.

“He laughed at me. He refused so utterly that I lost my temper and called him villain and scoundrel. He retorted by insulting me with a vile charge as to the cause of my taking an interest in that poor woman, and he struck me, and then – ”

“Well,” said Richard, “and then?”

“I horsewhipped him, Dick, as you horsewhipped that man.”

“And he challenged you, and you fought, and – ”

“Yes, heaven forgive me,” said Mellersh in a low voice, “I shot him dead!”

“You did this for the woman you did not love,” said Richard Linnell, as if speaking to himself. “Yes, for the woman I did not love.”

“What I did was for the woman I love with all my heart.”

Volume Two – Chapter Five.
A Retired Spot for a Bathe

It was a cold grey morning as Colonel Mellersh and Richard Linnell went out on to the parade, quite unaware that a pair of dark eyes were watching from behind an upper blind; but the fact that each man carried a towel in his hand disarmed suspicion, and the owner of the eyes went back to the couch in her room as the gentlemen passed out of sight.

“I was afraid,” she said to herself softly. “Perhaps there was no truth in it after all.”

Meanwhile, the Colonel and Richard Linnell went briskly on past the pier, with no one yet astir upon the parade; but farther on there were boats putting out to sea, and fishermen carrying oars and baskets down to those lying on the shingle.

As they went on along the cliff, Fisherman Dick was down by his upturned boat, trying the pitch, to find out whether it was hardened, and hearing the voices, he looked up and saw the two men pass.

“Master Richard Linnell – the Colonel,” he said to himself. “Bathing, eh? Well, it’s lonesome enough out there.”

The mist hung over the sea, and the waves came in with a mournful sound upon the shore, the pebbles rattling together as they were driven up and rolled back with the retiring waters, sounding in the distance as if they were whispering together about the meeting that was about to take place a mile or so onward, beyond the chalk bluff, where the land trended inward, and formed a little bay.

Fisherman Dick found the bottom of his boat rather sticky, but he did not seem to be thinking about it, but to be putting that and that together.

“Master Richard Linnell give that Major Rockley an out and out good welting yonder in the cornfield, and if he’d been with him instead of that tother one, I should say there was going to be a fight with pistols; but I suppose it means a bit of a swim, and – ”

Dick Miggles bent down over his boat, and seemed to be paying not the least heed, for just then he saw four people coming down the cliff path on to the beach, and as they passed he saw that they were Rockley, Sir Harry Payne, a gentleman he did not know, and the Major’s dragoon servant, James Bell, carrying something under his military cloak.

“It’s a fight,” said Dick Miggles, as they passed him, picking their way down over the shingle to the firmer ground, close to the water’s edge, where there were long stretches of sand, and it was better walking.

“Now, what shall I do?” said Fisherman Dick; “go and tell the constables? They’d be abed, and it would take me an hour to get back with them, and the mischief would be done before then. Anyhow, I’ll go and see what’s going on.”

By this time Mellersh and Linnell had passed out of sight along the shore, and the second party were a hundred yards away.

Fisherman Dick did not hesitate, but, going back up the cliff path, he reached the top, and walked swiftly along eastward for some distance. Then, throwing himself down, he crawled flat on the ground, taking off his hat and leaving it behind him.

In a few seconds he was at the edge of the cliff, where the soft shore turf ended, and the chalk was broken away, going sheer down perpendicularly to the shingle beach and rough rock débris that had fallen from time to time after undermining by the sea. As he expected, the two little parties were below.

“They’re going to fight, sure enough,” muttered the fisherman. “I may as well go and see fair. Where’ll they do it?”

He lay still for a few moments thinking.

“Why, they’ll make for the sand patch in Jollick’s Cove,” he said aloud. “Don’t know much about it, or they’d have took the path and the short cut and gone down the chalk steps.”

He smiled as some thought occurred to him, and, drawing back from the edge of the cliff, he crawled back to where the beaten path showed faintly, and where at intervals the turf had been cut away down to the chalk, and a white patch made, as a guide for travellers in the dark, lest they should stray from the slight sheep-track and go over the cliff to certain death.

Along this path Fisherman Dick ran at a brisk trot for quite a mile, while the cliff rose slightly into a bold bluff, but the fisherman did not climb this, but plunged down suddenly behind a clump of furze into a ravine where a slight path showed that there was a way to the shore.

He went down this a few yards, and then turned, took two great strides, climbed up the face of the ravine a little way, stepped behind a huge mass of chalk, went in and out among some débris from the cliff, and then stepped into what looked like a rain gully which led to an opening in the rock, forming a rough half hole, half cavern, with the light coming from the side through a large irregular opening, partly natural, partly reduced by the arrangement of blocks of chalk, so that there was plenty of room for a dozen men to be in shelter, and where, unseen, they had full view of the open sea for miles on either side, and of the smooth patch of sand in the little cove, fifty feet or so below.

“There, as long as they don’t shute up this way,” said the fisherman, “I shall be all right and can see them all. I hope young Linnell won’t be hurt. Don’t suppose he will, for pistols is mortal stupid tools to work with.”

Linnell and Mellersh came into sight soon after, and paused on reaching the sandy cove, a place admirably suited for the purpose in hand, for though from the rough look-out above, the shore could be commanded for some distance either way, those who occupied the sandy patch were hidden from either east or west.

“I’d have given something to have prevented this, Dick,” said Mellersh huskily; “but you were bound to meet him.”

“Yes,” said Richard gravely. “It was unavoidable. Hush! don’t talk to me. I’m firm now, and,” – he smiled as he spoke – “I want to do you justice.”

“Well,” said Sir Harry Payne, in a low voice, as the second party came upon the ground, “how do you feel now, Rockley? What do you mean to do?”

“To the man who struck me, and came between me and Claire Denville?”

“Yes.”

“I shall shoot him like a dog.”

Volume Two – Chapter Six.
James Bell is Confidential

Sir Harry Payne looked at the stony face before him, and read fierce, implacable determination written plainly there. He felt that his companion was a soldier who would face death without a moment’s hesitation, and that there was not a tremor in any pulse.

He had but little time for thought, for there were salutations to make, everything being carried out in the most cold-blooded style; after which Sir Harry took an oblong box from the Major’s servant.

“You can go now,” he said.

“Not stay with my master, sir?”

“I said go, fellow,” cried Sir Harry sharply; and, in spite of his jaunty manner, he looked cold and pale.

“Back, Sir Harry?”

“No – anywhere. There, up the cliff. Be within call.”

The man saluted, turned on his heel, and, walking to where a roughly-cut path of steps led up the cliff into the little ravine, began to mount as quickly as he could.

About half-way up he turned, saw that he was out of sight, and then, following Fisherman Dick’s steps as if he were familiar with the way, climbed right into the rough cavern, and came suddenly upon the man, who started round in surprise.

“Hullo!” he growled. “What are you doing here?”

“Same to you,” said the young dragoon, in a low voice. “What are you going to do?”

“See the fight, if you must know,” said Fisherman Dick. “Like my place, p’raps.”

“Yes,” said the young soldier quickly, “I should;” and, stepping forward, he looked down cautiously on the group below.

“Why, it’s Fred Denville, surely,” cried Fisherman Dick.

“Hush, man!” said the young soldier, catching him by the arm; “James Bell now. Not a word to a soul about me.”

“What, not to your young brother, Master Fred?”

“Hist! I’m only a common soldier now, Dick. You won’t betray me, I know.”

“Not I, lad. Troost me.”

“I will, Dick, with my name, and – ”

He placed his lips close to the fisherman’s ear, and whispered.

Fisherman Dick brought a broad hand down softly on his knee, and laughed a silent laugh. But the next moment he turned preternaturally solemn, and whispered:

“It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Fair!” whispered back Fred: “is it fair for that poor fellow to stand and be shot down by a man who can snuff a candle at a dozen paces? I’ve seen him do it.”

“I’ve done, my lad, and you’re safe with me. I’m closer as you used to know.”

Meanwhile the preparations had been going on below, and were so far advanced that the preliminaries had been all settled, the pistols charged, the ground stepped out, and the men were standing back to back, twelve paces apart.

Rockley was deadly pale, but not with the pallor of fear, as he stood exactly below the hollow where the two men were looking down. There was a savage look of rage in his eyes, and his lip was white where he pressed his teeth upon it firmly, longing the while to receive the weapon that was to be the minister of his vengeance upon the man he hated with an intense and ardent hate.

The doctor had drawn aside, walking down towards the sea, and the two seconds were together, every step in the progress of the drama being taken with a cold formality that was awful.

At last the seconds parted, each bearing one of the loaded weapons, and walking firmly towards his principal.

“Here you are, Rockley,” said Sir Harry, in a voice that was husky, and not quite firm. “You’ll wing him, won’t you, or give him a ball through one of his legs?”

“If I can shoot straight,” said Rockley coldly – “and my arm is pretty firm this morning – there shall be a funeral in Saltinville next Sunday.”

“No, no. Gad, man, don’t do that. Think of yourself if you killed him.”

“I could get over it,” was the reply. “The Prince would help me; and if he wouldn’t – curse that Linnell, I’d sacrifice anything to pay him back his debt.”

“Yes, you’re firm enough, Dick. Mind: as Payne gives the word, raise your pistol and fire at once. You will not hit him, but the quick flash will spoil his aim. I will not consent to another shot. If he wants another it shall be at me. Now then; you understand?”

“Yes,” said Linnell firmly, “I understand, Mellersh. I shall not fire at him. If I fall – badly hit – tell Claire Denville I sent her my dear love.”

“Be firm, man. You will not fall,” said the Colonel, pressing his hand. Then, glancing at Sir Harry Payne, who was waiting, he walked away towards a certain prearranged point, where he and Sir Harry stood together in the grey morning light; while, back to back, there were the principals, each grasping his heavy duelling pistol, with the chalk cliff towering above, and, fifty yards away, the waves uttering their low, whispering sound.

Just then a couple of gulls floated by, grey and ghostly in the dull mist, uttering their faint and peevish cry, and a few drops of rain began to fall.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said Sir Harry Payne hoarsely.

No one spoke, but the principals bowed their heads.

“When I say ‘three,’” said Sir Harry, “you will turn round and fire. One—two– three!”

As the last word left Sir Harry Payne’s lips, the principals turned quickly round, and almost simultaneously came two sharp echoing reports following the faint puffs of smoke that shrouded the duellists for the moment.

Then, as the seconds were starting forward, Mellersh saw that Rockley was looking up at the face of the cliff. Then he looked down at Richard Linnell, who, as the shots were fired, twisted himself sharply round, dropping his pistol, and now stood with one hand pressed to his temple.

Mellersh saw a curious smile on Rockley’s face, and a hoarse gasp came from his throat.

“It is my fate to shoot another man – dead!” he muttered; and he was just in time to catch Richard Linnell as he reeled and was about to fall.

The doctor was coming up quickly, and Sir Harry had run to his principal.

“You’ve killed him,” he whispered.

“I hope so,” was the cool reply. “I’m not sure, though. That cursed piece of chalk fell from the cliff as I fired, and spoiled my aim. Go and see where he is hurt.”

As Sir Harry ran off, Rockley stooped and picked up a piece of chalk rock as big as his fist, and then threw it down, dusting his hand afterwards, and then removing the mark of the chalk where it had struck him upon his right shoulder.

“Pah!” he exclaimed, pressing his handkerchief to his lip, which was cut; “the thing bounced up. I hope it has not saved Mr Richard Linnell’s life.”

Judging from appearances it had not, for Richard Linnell lay upon the sand with his eyes half closed, and the blood trickling from a wound over the right temple, just where the hair began to grow.

“Is he much hurt?” whispered Sir Harry.

“Don’t know yet,” said the doctor sharply, as he examined the fallen man. “Not Rockley’s fault if he is not.”

“He’s a perfect devil,” muttered Sir Harry, as, looking very white, he gazed from one to the other, while the Major slowly walked down towards the sea and back.

“Well?” said Colonel Mellersh, as the doctor ceased his examination.

“Had my man better be off at once?” said Sir Harry. “Give him a chance to get away.”

“If you do get him away, Sir Harry Payne, let me know where he is gone. I may have a few words to say to Major Rockley.”

“I can’t tell what may supervene. There may be concussion of the brain,” said the surgeon. “Yes, he is coming to now. The bullet has only scored his head. It was a marvellous escape.”

“Blast!” muttered Major Rockley, as the news was conveyed to him. “Here, let’s be off back, I want my breakfast. Curse him, I’ve not done with him yet, Payne. There are other ways to touch the heart of a greenhorn like that, than with bullets. I’d got him dead as a hammer. My arm felt like steel, and my shot would have had him right in the chest if that piece of chalk had not struck me and jerked my arm. Come along.”

“Hadn’t I better go and see if I can be of any help?”

“Hadn’t you better go and nurse the scoundrel, and read to him a bit? Bah! Come along, man. He has his second, and they can fetch help from the fishermen’s cottages if they want it.”

Sir Harry followed him up the cliff steps and along the Down path without a word.

“So, I shall not want a post-chaise,” said Rockley, with a laugh. “No rushing up to town and hiding for a while in chambers in St. James’s, or running over to Boulogne. Good job, too. Save the money. I’m fearfully short. Why, man, you look white.”

“Do I? It’s cold. I’m glad that the affair has terminated so well.”

“Terminated?” cried the Major, grasping him by the arm, “It has only begun. I tell you there are other ways than bullets to touch a man’s heart, and I’ll pierce his, curse him! so that he shall rue the day he ever crossed my path.”

Sir Harry looked at him uneasily.

“Payne,” he continued, “I’m a firm friend to those who help me – and lend me money,” he added, with a laugh – “but I never forgive an insult, or a woman’s slight.”

Down on the beach, Colonel Mellersh was kneeling with the great drops of perspiration standing on his face, holding Richard Linnell’s hand, while the surgeon was looking on anxiously at the returning signs of knowledge of his position on his patient’s part.

The other principal and second had been gone some minutes when footsteps were heard, and James Bell and Fisherman Dick came quickly down the cliff.

“Is he much hurt, sir?” said the former, with real signs of trouble in his face.

“No, my man: you may tell the Major that it was a narrow escape.”

“Poor lad!” muttered the soldier, going down on one knee, and making Colonel Mellersh look at him with surprise, as he took one cold hand, to hold it between his own for a few moments.

“Can we carry him to my house, gen’lemen,” said Fisherman Dick roughly. “’Taint very far.”

“No, my man, no,” said the doctor; “he has only been stunned. Narrow escape, though. He’ll walk home.”

“Do you mean it, sir?” cried James Bell. “Beg pardon, sir. Only glad the Major won’t have to go. I’ll get back to barracks now. He’ll be wanting me.”

“All right, my man. Take those confounded pistols with you. There: be off.”

The soldier placed the pistols in the case, and, saluting both gentlemen, hurried away by the shore, while Fisherman Dick touched his hat again, and said in a whisper:

“I’ve got a drop of right Nantes sperrit at my cottage, gentlemen, if you can bring him in there.”

“No, no,” said the doctor. “There, he’s coming round fast now,” and he pointed to Linnell’s staring eyes.

The doctor was right. Half an hour later, with no worse trouble to combat than a fierce headache, and the wound smarting under its strapping, Richard Linnell was able to take the Colonel’s arm and walk home, a warning to other young men not to attempt to climb up the cliff to the Downs, and risk falling and cutting their heads!

For that was the version of Richard Linnell’s mishap that ran through the town.

Volume Two – Chapter Seven.
Miss Clode is Overcome

It was a vain effort, for such an event was sure to be known to others besides the parties concerned.

Sent on a special mission by her aunt that morning, to see whether Mr Miggles had any fish, and with a basket to obtain a small bottle of a peculiar water that Fisherman Dick secretly supplied to a few friends whom he could trust, simple-faced Annie picked up some news.

“You don’t want any more brandy, aunty,” the girl had said; “there are two bottles not opened, and you said you wouldn’t have any more fish for ever so long.”

“Oh, Annie!” cried Miss Clode, “I thought you were beginning to be of a little use to me.”

The girl’s mouth opened wide, and her nose turned red; but directly after a cunning smile came in her face, and her eyes nearly closed.

“Oh, I say, aunty,” she said softly, “I know what you mean now. You mean go and make that an excuse for getting to know about pretty Miss Denville going to see about the little girl.”

“Worse and worse, Annie,” cried Miss Clode. “Don’t you understand that a still tongue makes a wise head?”

“Oh, yes, aunty, I know now;” and nodding her head very knowingly, Annie went off on her mission.

She returned very quickly, with a face quite scarlet with heat and excitement, full of the news she had picked up from Mrs Miggles, who had determined not to say a word of what she knew, and ended by telling all.

Miss Clode was in a state of excitement, for she had heard from a customer that young Mr Linnell, of the Parade, had fallen from the cliff that morning and cut his head, and the news turned the little woman pale, and she staggered and felt sick. When Annie came back she had recovered, but only ready on hearing her niece’s news to faint dead away and lie insensible, just as stout Mrs Barclay came in about a new account-book, and to purchase a couple of pounds’ worth of bill-stamps.

“Poor little woman!” cried Mrs Barclay sympathetically. “Here, don’t make a fuss, my dear; I’ll help you. Let’s get her on the sofa. It’s only fainting, and the smelling-salts will bring her round. That’s the way,” she panted and puffed as she helped to carry the slight little woman into the inner room. “Worse disasters at sea. Not so bad as Mr Linnell tumbling off the cliff this morning and cutting his head.”

“He didn’t tumble off the cliff,” said Annie, round-eyed and trembling with eagerness, as she whispered in Mrs Barclay’s ear.

“Oh, yes, he did, my dear.”

“No, he didn’t,” whispered Annie, as Miss Clode lay quite senseless. “Hearing about it all upset aunty.”

“Did it? What, his fall?”

“No, no, it wasn’t a fall; but I mustn’t say anything.”

“You don’t know anything,” said Mrs Barclay contemptuously.

“Oh yes, I do,” whispered Annie. “It’s very horrid. Major Rockley shot him in a duel this morning for horse-whipping him after Major Rockley had insulted Miss Denville. There!”

“Hush!” whispered Mrs Barclay, whose face was now as red as Annie’s. “Your aunt is coming to.”

“Don’t say I told you. She would be so cross.”

Mrs Barclay nodded; and, after saying a few comforting words to the sufferer as she came to, contented herself with buying the bill-stamps, and left the shop, while, as soon as she had recovered sufficiently, Miss Clode wrote a few hasty lines to Colonel Mellersh, and strictly enjoining her to hold her tongue, sent her niece off to deliver the note on the Parade.

Colonel Mellersh was not within, but Cora Dean and her mother were alighting from the pony-carriage, and Annie greeted them with a smile and a curtsey, which made Mrs Dean tap the girl on the shoulder with a formidable fan.

“Here, you come in, and walk upstairs. I want a word with you.”

“No, no, not now, mother,” said Cora hastily.

“Now, just you let me have my own way for once in my life, please, Betsy,” said Mrs Dean; and to avoid having words in the hall, where they could easily be overheard, Cora gave way, and in due time, to her intense delight, Annie was seated in one of Josiah Barclay’s gilded easy-chairs, with a piece of cake in her hand, and a glass of ginger wine before her.

“Which is quite good enough for her,” Mrs Dean had said to herself.

Cora had not taken off her things, but had gone to the window, to stand looking out, and biting her lips with shame and rage, as she heard her mother’s words to the girl.

“Trust me, ma’am?” Annie said, with her mouth half full of sweet Madeira cake, “that you may, ma’am, as much as you would aunty. Oh, yes, I’m sure aunty gave his lordship the notes, and he only laughed.”

Cora’s beautiful white teeth gritted together as, ill-bred as she was, she knew well enough that had she wished Lord Carboro’s openly-manifested admiration to ripen to her profit, her mother’s open invitations to him to call would have destroyed her chance.

Then she tried to shut her ears to what was going on, and stood there wondering whether Richard Linnell would go out while she stood there – why it was the house had been so quiet that morning, for she generally listened for an hour to him playing duets with his father.

Then she wondered rather bitterly whether he would ever care for her, and his coldly polite way be changed. He was always civil and pleasant, and chatted with her when they met, but that was all, and at times it mortified her, as she thought how beautiful she was, making her vow that she would be revenged upon him, while at other times all this made her sit down and sob by the hour together.

“Why should I trouble about him?” she was asking herself just then, as she gazed from the window, and ignored the low buzzing of Annie’s voice, which came huskily through Madeira cake, “I, who might accept almost any man I like. I’ve good looks, and money, and there are hundreds of men who would be only too glad of a smile. As for – ”

“Mr Linnell, ma’am? Oh, yes, it’s quite true,” Annie was whispering, and the name sent a thrill through Cora.

“But he lives downstairs, girl, and we should have known.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, I learn by heart – aunty makes me – where all the fashionable people live. I know Mr Linnell – two Mr Linnells – live downstairs. It’s in our visitor’s list, along with you, and Colonel Mellersh, and it’s quite true.”

What was quite true about Richard Linnell? If it was about Claire Denville, she would tear him from her; she would crush her. How dare she presume to think of her idol – the true, brave fellow who had dashed into the sea and saved her when she was drowning?

Poor Fisherman Dick, like many more, not being young and handsome, was forgotten after that ten-pound note.

Cora’s eyes flashed, her cheeks burned, and she looked as beautiful as an artist’s idea of Juno, listening now with all the concentration of her passionate nature.

“I oughtn’t to talk about it, ma’am, and I wouldn’t tell anyone but you,” Annie went on. “They said he fell over the cliff this morning and cut his head.”

Cora Dean saw blood upon a white forehead, and she clutched the back of a chair, for the room seemed to be turning, and she felt sick.

“But he didn’t, ma’am.”

“Isn’t he hurt, then?”

“Yes, ma’am, badly. I wonder you didn’t know. You see, he met Major Rockley – you know him, ma’am? – handsome dark gentleman with mustachios.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Mrs Dean, revelling in the bit of gossip. “Have some more cake.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Major Rockley was out walking with Miss Claire Denville out on the Downs – ”

Cora’s faintness passed away, and the room ceased to glide round as her eyes brightened, and she felt as if she could have embraced that handsome roué, who always, bowed to her with such a look of insolent contempt.

“And then Mr Linnell came up and took Major Rockley’s whip away and beat him.”

Cora’s cheeks burned with jealous rage now. How dare Richard Linnell do that? And yet she liked him for it. He was so brave. But for Claire Denville! Her eyes flashed again.

“Then they met this morning, ma’am, down on the sands, and fought a real duel, and Major Rockley shot Mr Linnell.”

“It is not true!” cried Cora excitedly, and once more the room began to turn.

“Yes, ma’am, it’s quite true,” said Annie, with her mouth now full of cake.

Shot! – injured by Major Rockley! and she – she could not go down to him to wait upon him, and show him by her every act how she loved him.

A minute before she had been ready to bless Major Rockley. Now, curses were in her heart, as she thought of him raising his hand against Richard Linnell to strike him down.

“No, ma’am, he isn’t very bad,” Annie went on, in answer to a question of Mrs Dean.

“It can’t be true,” Cora said to herself, as her brain seemed to become a chaos of love, jealousy, hatred, and pride in the brave young fellow who had saved her life, and, civilian though he was, showed himself ready to meet such a notorious fire-eater as the Major.

Just then she gave a gasp, for she saw a stiff, military-looking man, whom she knew to be the regimental surgeon, come up to the door.

It was true, then; and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into an hysterical fit of sobbing.

But a thought came directly that gave her strength, and she felt joy and elation together as she said to herself:

“He found them together, and horsewhipped the Major. Well, so much the better. He can never think of Claire Denville again. If he did – ”

She uttered a low unpleasant laugh, as Annie found that she must go back, for she could eat no more cake; and as soon as they were alone Mrs Dean exclaimed:

“Don’t, for goodness’ sake, laugh like that, my dear; it gives me the cold shivers all down my back. It’s just like Metalina in ‘The Haunted Vampire,’ where she takes an oath as she’ll kill her rival or perish in the attempt.”

Volume Two – Chapter Eight.
Mrs Barclay is Puzzled

“Oh, my dear, and do you know how they’re all a-talking about you?” cried Mrs Barclay, as she sat panting beneath the florid portrait of May Burnett in the MC’s shabby drawing-room.

Claire looked up appealingly in the pleasant, plump face, and her brow knit.

“You see, it all comes to me, my dear, and it worries me because I like you so.”

“You were always very kind to me, Mrs Barclay.”

“Not half so kind as I should like to be, my dear. I wanted to have you home when the mur – ”

“Oh, hush!”

“Of course, my dear. That’s my way. So vulgar and thoughtless. Think of me now bringing that up to you who live here; and us sitting in the very next room.”

“Mrs Barclay!”

“Yes, I won’t say another word, my dear. Not that I believe in sperrits or anything of that kind. But you were saying about me being kind. Why, you won’t let me be, my dear. I’m sure the dresses I’d buy you, and the things I’d give you, if you’d let me, would make some of them stare.”

“But I could not let you, Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, smiling.

“No; you’re so proud, my dear, that’s it. You see, Josiah lets me have so much for housekeeping, that I’ve always plenty to spare; and as to jewellery, why, I might wash in diamonds if I liked, but I don’t.”

“Let us be as usual, Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, with more animation, “and never mind about what people say, or fashion, or dress, or any of the nonsense.”

“I’m sure I should like to be, my dear; but you being a motherless girl, I don’t like to hear people talking about you.”

Claire’s face grew flushed.

“Don’t look like that, Claire, my dear. I’m not cross with you, but when people talk about you being out walking with that horrid black Major Rockley, it hurts me.”

“I could not help it, Mrs Barclay,” said Claire.

“Then it’s all true, then, about young Mr Linnell horse-whipping him?”

“Yes, yes; but this is so cruel to me. He did beat him for insulting me.”

“Bless him then. I always liked him, my dear. How he must love you!”

“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Claire, in agony.

“I don’t see why. I’m sure he’s everything that’s good and brave; and you need not sob like that, my dear, for, from what I can hear, he isn’t very badly hurt.”

Claire started. A dread that had been hanging over her was beginning to assume form.

“But they say it’s a mercy that the Major’s bullet did not go an inch lower.”

“Bullet? The Major! They have had a meeting?”

“Yes, my dear. I thought you must know, and I came to talk to you about even speaking to – there – there, what a woman I am. I came to do good, and I’m doing nothing but harm. Now, she’s going to faint.”

“No, no!” cried Claire agitatedly; “it is nothing. I am not going to faint, Mrs Barclay, indeed. There, you see, I am quite calm now.”

“Yes, and I am sorry, my dear; but I am such a thoughtless woman. Barclay’s quite right; I haven’t no head at all.”

“No head?” said Claire, smiling, as she sat down close to her visitor and laid her hands upon her arm. “Perhaps it is because you have so much heart.”

“Heart, my dear! why – no; I declare I’m most afraid to speak, for fear of saying something that may hurt your feelings.”

“If you will not speak about – about – ”

“Mr Linnell, my dear?”

“Yes, but only to tell me that he is not much hurt – you said so, did you not?” cried Claire.

“Yes, my dear; he’s not much hurt. But, Claire, my dear, wouldn’t it be better if you – so pretty and young as you are – did care very much for some one as nice and good as he is?”

“No, no,” cried Claire excitedly. “Pray, pray say no more. It is impossible.”

“Well, you know best, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay sadly; “and you want me to talk about something else. Well, I’ll talk about you, only you must not mind if I say something stupid. It’s my way.”

“I am sure you would not say anything to wound me,” said Claire, kissing her.

“Indeed I wouldn’t, my dear: and, do you know, ever since I found out how you people here were situated, through Mr Denville coming to see my Josiah, who is the real best of men, I seemed to take to you like. I went home and had a good cry after I’d been here the first time, and seen you managing your poor father, and your sister and brother so well.”

Claire’s brow grew troubled, but her visitor prattled on.

“You had another brother, hadn’t you, my dear, who couldn’t agree with your father like, and then went away?”

“Yes,” said Claire, bowing her head to hide her face.

“Ah, my Josiah told me so. Well, well, there’s troubles in every family, my dear; and so long as pa has got you he has not much cause for complaint.”

Claire looked up, trying to smile, but it was a sorry attempt; and soon after her guest rose, assuring her that she need not be uneasy about Mr Linnell.

“One word before I go, my dear, though, just as a secret. It isn’t that I’m curious, because I don’t care who it is marries, or whom they marry; but I’ve no girls of my own, and I do take an interest in you. Now, just in a whisper like. I am an old friend.”

“Yes, yes – indeed, you are. The only dear friend I have.”

“Then tell me now; put your lips close to my ear – it is to be Mr Linnell, is it not?”

“Never!” said Claire firmly.

“Oh, my! And I told you to whisper. I won’t believe it’s that horrible Major.”

“Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, putting her arms round her homely friend’s neck, “they say that every woman has her duty in life: mine is to watch over and help my father, and to be such protection as I can to my sister and brothers.”

“What, and not get married at all?” cried Mrs Barclay, in a tone of disappointment.

“And never be any man’s wife,” said Claire sadly. “Oh!”

“Stop one moment, Mrs Barclay,” whispered Claire, in a strangely hesitating manner, “you do like me, I know.”

“Indeed, I do, my dear, though I must say you disappoint me horribly.”

“Then I want you – whatever comes to pass – whatever people may say of me – to try and think the best of me.”

“Why, my darling!”

“Yes: I know you will; but your confidence may be sorely tried, and I want you to think well of me always. I cannot do all I wish, and – and – I cannot explain myself; only think the best you can of me. Good-bye, good-bye!”

“She is the strangest girl I ever did meet,” said Mrs Barclay, as she panted away in her thick silk and enormous open bonnet. “Think well of her, whatever comes to pass! Why, of course I will, poor girl!”

Volume Two – Chapter Nine.
An Interested Patron

“Well, Denville,” said Lord Carboro’, “I wanted to see you.”

“In what way can I serve your lordship?” said the MC, with his best bow.

“A pinch of your snuff.”

The pinch was taken, and the box snapped and returned.

“Your arm.”

Denville’s breast swelled as he offered his arm to the elderly beau, and a flush of hope rose into his cheeks. The sun must be coming out at last.

It was a pleasant thing to be seen walking along the Parade in so familiar a way with Lord Carboro’, and to his great delight Denville saw that the Parade was well filled.

He expected that this would be only a temporary condescension from the wealthy old nobleman; but Lord Carboro’ held on tightly, made a few very nasty remarks about some of the people they passed, and then said suddenly:

“Drelincourt has been asking me to interest myself with the Prince to get your boy a commission.”

“Indeed, my lord?”

“Yes, indeed. ’Nother pinch of snuff.”

The box —sniff – snuff – snap.

“Like to know what I said to her?”

“My lord, I am a father.”

“Yes, Denville, I know it. Well.”

The old man changed the conversation to make another remark or two about some visitors, and then said, suddenly returning to the subject:

“Drelincourt asked me to get the lad a commission.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You don’t think of letting that old harpy claw up the boy?”

“Oh, my lord!”

“Of course, it would be madness. I told her I’d see her ladyship made a mummy first.”

The MC’s heart sank.

“She means to marry fat Matt Bray. I hope she will. I said I’d see her ladyship made a mummy first, Denville; and – he, he, he! she showed real colour. It came up in her cheeks, all round the rouge. Poor old girl! she is as bad as her sister was: hates to hear about dying. Doosid awkward thing, old Teigne being killed in your house. I wonder who got her diamonds.”

Denville’s hands began to tremble, and the beads of perspiration to stand upon his forehead.

“Must all die some day, I suppose. Great nuisance to think about if the weather’s fine, Denville; but when it’s a cold, easterly wind, or one’s gout’s bad, I often feel as if I shouldn’t mind being tucked up comfortably. How do you feel about it, Denville? You’re not a chicken.”

“My lord, I feel sometimes as if, once I could see my boy settled, and my daughter well married, it would be a relief to lie down and take the long sleep,” said the MC solemnly.

“Denville,” said Lord Carboro’, after a pause, during which he held on tightly to his companion’s arm. “I’ve gone on for years calling you an artificial old humbug, with your deportment and niminy-piminy ways. I hadn’t the common sense to see that they were like my wig and stock, sir – put on. I beg your pardon, Denville. I do, sir: I beg your pardon. You’ve the right stuff in you after all, and, sir – I’m very proud to tell you that what I wouldn’t do for that old harpy, Drelincourt, I would do on my own account.”

“My lord!”

“Yes, sir; asked His Royal Highness, myself, and he said nothing would give him greater pleasure. Denville, your son has a commission in the Light Dragoons.”

“My lord, I – I – ”

“Don’t, don’t, Denville,” said the old man, pressing his arm. “Hold up man, or some of these idiots will be seeing that you are moved. Take a pinch of snuff, man – of mine, and let’s walk out upon the Downs, out here beyond the fishermen’s cottages, and my sight isn’t what it was, or I should have said that was Miss Claire going into yon fisherman’s hut.”

“Impossible, my lord. Will you allow me to express my – ”

“No, no, no. Not a word, Denville. Why, man, you are husky with emotion now, real emotion. Don’t say another word about it. Only make the boy do us justice.”

“He shall, my lord,” said the MC in a broken voice.

“And now, look here, Denville; I’m about one of the most selfish old fellows that ever breathed, and I want to see if I can’t have a little recompense for all my miseries and disappointments.”

“Yours, my lord?”

“Yes, sir, mine,” said the old beau. “Do you think because I’m rich I’m happy? Not a bit of it. I haven’t long to live though now, and I want to make the best of the time left.”

“My lord!”

“Hold your tongue and listen. I heard all about Rockley meeting Miss Claire and young Linnell thrashing him.”

“It was a most unfortunate affair, my lord.”

“I don’t know that either. Pity young Linnell couldn’t shoot and pop off that scoundrel Rockley. By the way, he looked daggers at me for getting your boy appointed to his regiment; but the boy shan’t disgrace the corps, if I find him money myself.”

Denville paused where they stood upon the Downs and gazed wonderingly at the old Earl.

“I make you stare, Denville. Well, I’ll be frank with you, and you shall be frank with me.”

The MC bowed and wiped his streaming face.

“Of course she does not care for Rockley.”

“Good heavens, my lord; no!”

“Nor for young Linnell?”

The MC hemmed twice before he spoke.

“I, too, will be frank with you, my lord,” he said. “It was in dead opposition to my wishes, but I’m afraid there was something between my daughter and Mr Richard Linnell.”

Lord Carboro’ looked at the speaker searchingly.

“It was an unspoken attachment, my lord, nothing more; and since that terrible event at my house – I am obliged to name it,” he said, with quivering lip – “whatever intimacy existed has been broken off.”

“Humph! Sure, Denville?”

“I have my daughter’s word, my lord. That duel set me thinking; and like another father, my lord, of whom we read, I bespoke her roundly.”

“Oh! come, Denville, don’t compare yourself to Polonius, man. He – he – he!”

“Only to that extent, my lord. As I say, I spoke to her, and she assured me that there was nothing whatever between her and Mr Linnell, but gratitude towards a gentleman who saved her from insult.”

“Denville, that Mellersh is his friend; he ought to have shown the boy how to shoot the scoundrel.”

The MC was trembling with excitement. He was between hope and dread, for he could not but divine what was coming, and in spite of the glittering future it held up to his view he shrank from it with fear.

Volume Two – Chapter Ten.
An Elderly Suitor

“Gratitude, eh?” said Lord Carboro’ suddenly.

“Yes, my lord,” said the MC, who was perspiring profusely.

“Deuced dangerous thing, Denville. Are you sure?”

“My lord, I have my child’s word, and that is sacred.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Lord Carboro’, “you are right. Bless her! she is as sweet and true as she is beautiful. She stands alone here in her youthful dignity. Damme, Denville, I always look upon her as some beautiful Greek goddess, and I would have sooner gone to her funeral than seen that roué Rockley win her. I would, damme.”

“My lord, so would I,” said Denville huskily.

“And you would sooner go to her funeral than see her my wife, eh?” said the old beau abruptly.

“My lord, I did not say so.”

“Nor think it?”

Stuart Denville, MC of Saltinville, stood there out on the hazy Downs, trembling, obsequious, tossed by his emotions. It was so dazzling, this suggestion of an offer for his child’s hand. May had married a rich man; but for Claire, his beautiful child, to become the wife of a wealthy nobleman – to become Countess of Carboro’! It was such an exaltation – greater than his highest dreams. But before him stood that withered old man, scanning him with his sharp eyes, and ready to probe him with his bitterly venomed tongue. He, to be the husband of his beautiful child. It was sacrilege.

“We agreed to be quite frank,” said Lord Carboro’ sharply.

Denville drew a long breath, and biting his lip, called up before his mental vision the sweet soft face of his child wearing a new horror as he bore her this news, and trampling down, as it were, the great temptation, he cast off his mincing ways, his servile politeness, and in a quick, firm voice exclaimed:

“Will your lordship commence and set me the example? What do you mean?”

“Come, I like that, Denville. Spoken like a man. Well, I’ll be frank. I have long been thinking of your child, and watching her, and as I have watched her I have loved – no, that is absurd at my age – my liking for her has grown. I have put it off and it has come back, and I have put it off again as I have heard some bit of scandal, but she has always come out of it so spotless and well that I have grown more – well, infatuated.”

He paused for a minute, and then went on speaking earnestly.

“Then came that horror at your house, just as I had made up my mind to speak to you; and I said no: it was impossible; but the feeling grew. Yes, man, even at my age.”

Denville bowed, and drew himself up very stiffly.

“I waited, Denville, and was about to speak to you when this affair with Rockley and the duel took place, and I stopped at home and swore horribly; but the feeling still grew and grew, and as that has all passed away, I now ask you if you will give me your consent. I ask you as a gentleman, Denville, to address her and ask her if she will be my wife.”

Denville did not answer, for a tremendous struggle was going on within his breast, and it was hard to say which side would win.

“Hah!” said Lord Carboro’, speaking quickly; “you say I am very old. Granted. That I ought to think of my coffin instead of a wife. Granted. That I am an old fool; but there I join issue.”

Denville had raised his hands deprecatingly.

“I am not an old fool, Denville.”

“No, my lord, you are not.”

“I’ll tell you why. I have said to myself that if this beautiful young creature swore to be my faithful wife I could trust her. She would be a sweet companion for my declining years; and, God bless her! if she consented, I would repay her for the sacrifice. In a few years I should leave her young, rich, titled, and free to choose some more suitable companion than the old man she had tended to his grave.”

There were no marks lying on the ground as those two elderly men stood face to face alone on the short turf of the Downs; but it seemed as if they must have dropped a tear.

Neither spoke for some minutes, and then it was the Master of the Ceremonies.

“My lord,” he said firmly, “you have given me this commission for my son as a bribe.”

“No, no, Denville, I swear I have not.”

“Take it back, my lord, for what you ask is impossible.”

“Impossible?”

“Fate has been very hard to me, my lord, and the burden has been too heavy at times to bear; but I cannot do this thing. I love my child too well.”

They stood gazing out to sea for some minutes, and only the rushing of the wind was heard, or the wailing cry of the gulls, but at last Lord Carboro’ spoke.

“Denville, I did not know you,” he said gravely. “I thought I had to deal with a different man; but don’t let us be hasty. As to the commission, it is your boy’s, and may he deserve it. As to what we have said, let us wait. Don’t refuse me absolutely, and don’t say a word to Miss Denville. Give me leave to visit at your house, and let matters slide for a few months. Things may shape themselves so that you may change your mind; do you consent to this?”

“It would be like buoying your lordship up with false hopes.”

“That is my look-out, sir; do you consent?”

“I am your lordship’s obedient, humble servant.”

“You are the man I offer to make my father-in-law? Answer me, sir, like a man.”

“I consent.”

“That’s better. Denville, your hand. In future I shall know you as the man I have seen to-day. I never respected you one half so much before.”

Volume Two – Chapter Eleven.
James Bell’s Decision

It was in honour of Morton Denville’s reception into the regiment that the Master of the Ceremonies received. There had been some difficulty in the matter, but on the very first night that the young man dined at the mess, when, urged by Major Rockley, his brother-officers had decided to send him to Coventry, it so happened that “a certain gentleman” was at Saltinville and had expressed his intention to Colonel Lascelles of looking in.

Consequently, it was decided not to transport the young subaltern to the Midlands that night; and as it happened His Royal Highness asked the Colonel who the tall youth was, ordered him to be introduced, and shook hands with the young man.

“Devilish gentlemanly fellow, your father, my lad. Always looks a gentleman, and carries a devilish good pinch of snuff. My compliments to him, and tell him I was glad to oblige Carboro’.”

“They were all as civil to me as could be, after that, Clairy,” said Morton, relating the meeting at home. “Even Rockley shook hands after dinner, when we’d had a lot of claret, and he apologised about being carried away, he called it, and said we were brother-officers now, and must be good friends. I don’t like him, though.”

Claire turned pale.

“I say, though, Clairy, I haven’t said a word to the dad, but what am I to do? I turned cold and hot, and queer as could be yesterday. Whom do you think I met?”

Claire knew what was coming, but she did not speak.

“Fred. I’d half forgotten about him, and he’s in my troop.”

“Did – did Fred speak, Morton?”

“No; he cut me dead, and of course he is James Bell in the regimental books; but, I say, isn’t it awkward? I can’t know him, you see, as my brother: what shall I do?”

“Fred has shown you,” said Claire huskily, as her troubles seemed to be on the increase. “I will try and persuade him to leave the regiment. We must buy him out.”

“Yes, to be sure,” cried the boy. “Oh, I say, what a clever old girl you are, Sis! Why, you’re better than a mother.”

Claire smiled sadly as he kissed her and left the house.

That night she wrote to Private James Bell about the difficulty – a long sisterly letter, offering to get the money to buy his discharge, and alluding to everything as tenderly as the subject would allow.

In due time a crisp short reply came back:

“Dear Claire,

“No, I shall not leave the regiment. I want to keep my eye on the Major. Tell Morton not to be afraid. I am only James Bell, and I shall never presume. I am too well disciplined for that. Take care of your dear self.

“Good-bye, F.”

Claire wept over the letter, and hid it with her treasures. The difficulty seemed to have passed away, and she felt lighter at heart.

She had to prepare too for the evening that the Master of the Ceremonies had determined to give, not because he could afford it, but nominally, as intimated, in honour of his son’s receiving a commission, more especially because Lord Carboro’ had wished it, and said that he should come.

With such a visitor to give éclat to the proceedings, the difficulty was how to arrange to issue invitations, for Denville, with throbbing breast, felt that no one would decline.

He was in a tremor for days, as he thought the matter over, and was swayed by his ambition and his true manhood, to and fro.

At times he raised his eyes to find that Claire was watching him, and her cold candid look made him shrink within himself, as he thought of the past, and he shivered in dread lest she should display that terrible repugnance again, instead of the sad, half despondent distance that had become her manner and her bearing towards him.

She never kissed him, but, when he took her hand, she suffered him to press his lips to her brow without flinching as she had at first, and he sighed and accepted his fate.

There had been times of late when the entanglement of his younger son’s position in the regiment, with an elder brother a private in the ranks, had half driven him mad, keeping him awake night after night; and Claire had lain weeping despairingly as she had heard him pace his room, but the horrible difficulty he had been anticipating did not seem to come home, and he waited for the Nemesis that would some day arrive, hoping that he might be allowed time to complete his plans before the bolt fell.

He sat one morning, deciding with Claire to whom invitations were to be issued. Lady Drelincourt would come of course, as Lord Carboro’ would be there, and several other notables had been invited.

“Then the officers of the regiment, of course.”

Claire half rose and looked in her father’s face.

“We must forget that, my child,” he said imploringly. “Major Rockley is a gentleman, and he has in some sort apologised to Morton. He told me so. To leave him out would be to insult him. He must be asked. His good sense will keep him away. You must ask Colonel Mellersh, too. He is a great friend of Colonel Lascelles.”

“You will ask Mr and Mrs Barclay, father?” said Claire.

“Oh, yes, we must. Dreadfully vulgar people, but it is a necessity.”

Claire sighed as she thought of what was behind Mrs Barclay’s vulgarity, and the note was written.

A couple of days passed, and everyone without exception had expressed his or her intention of being present, when, as he was on the Parade, Colonel Mellersh met the MC, and said:

“By the way, Denville, I want you to invite my young friend Linnell to your party.”

“I shall be charmed,” said Denville, with a smile, for he could not refuse; and in due course Richard Linnell received an invitation and replied.

A little farther on, Denville came upon Lady Drelincourt in her chair.

“Ah, Denville, bad man,” she said, tapping him with her folded fan. “I feel as if I could not come to your house. My poor dear sister!”

The houses on the Parade seemed to reel before the MC’s eyes.

“But one cannot grieve for ever. I shall come. Have you asked that wicked Rockley?”

Denville bowed.

“And Sir Matthew Bray?”

“All the officers whom duty will allow are coming.”

“That’s well; and now, Denville, you must send an imitation with apologies to Mrs Pontardent.”

“Lady Drelincourt!”

“I can’t help it. She wishes to come, and I have promised that she shall.”

The result was that Mrs Pontardent was invited, and in turn she expressed a wish that her dear friends the Deans, whom Mr Denville had introduced to her, should not be left out.

The Master of the Ceremonies had the deciding who should be in society, and who should not; and here he was making a stand when Lord Carboro’ came up – it was on the pier – and was appealed to by Mrs Pontardent.

“Oh, yes, Denville,” he said good-humouredly; “ask Mrs and Miss Dean.”

The Master of the Ceremonies ruled the roost, but he was everybody’s slave; and, in this case, the only way out of the difficulty after they had been neglected so long was to call with Claire and invite them personally.

“If you wish it, papa,” Claire said, when spoken to on the subject.

“I do not, my dear,” he replied, with a sigh. “My position compels it.”

They went trembling: Claire in agony lest she should encounter Richard Linnell; her father about the expenses into which he was drifting, for the tradespeople were giving him broad hints, especially the confectioner, that money must be forthcoming if the refreshments were to be supplied.

Cora Dean’s eyes flashed with pride and jealousy as the visitors were shown in, but she received Claire courteously, and the wonderfully different pair were left together by the open window, while Mrs Dean drew the Master of the Ceremonies aside.

“I am pleased, Mr Denville,” she whispered. “This is real good of you. I knew you would get us into society at last. Mrs Pontardent has been very kind, but she ain’t everybody. I wanted my Bet – my Cora – to meet my Lady Drelincourt and the other big ones. After this, of course, it’s all plain sailing, and we shall go on. I say, just look at ’em.”

Denville turned with a sigh towards the bay window where Claire and Cora were seated, talking quietly, but with eyes that seemed to fight and fence, as if each feared the other.

“You go into a many houses and don’t see such a pair as that.”

“Your daughter is a beautiful woman, Mrs Dean.”

“Lady,” said the latter correctively; “and so’s yours, only too cold and pale. And now, look here, Denville, as friends – I know what’s what.”

“Really, Mrs Dean, you puzzle me.”

“Hush! Don’t speak so loud. Look here, you’ve done me a thoroughly good turn, and I’m a warm woman, and not ungrateful. As I said before, I know what’s what – Parties ain’t done well for nothing, and expenses comes heavy sometimes. If you want to borrow thirty or forty pounds – there, stuff! you must have your fees. I’m going to put half a dozen five-pound notes under the chany ornament in the back room. You can look round and admire the rooms and get it.”

His spirit rebelled, but his breeches pocket gaped horribly, and wincing in spirit, he rose and went forward to talk to Cora in his society way, starting, in spite of himself, as he heard the chink of china on marble, while, after a time, he began in the most graceful way to gaze through his eyeglass at the pictures and china from Mr Barclay’s ample store, ending by securing the notes in the most nonchalant way.

After letting a sufficient time elapse, the Denvilles took their leave, and Mrs Dean broke out in ecstasy:

“There, Betsy, at last. You’ll be a real lady now.”

“Yes, mother,” said Cora dreamily.

“I say, Denville isn’t a bad one, only he has to be paid.”

“It’s the custom, mother.”

“Oh, yes. You know what ’Amlet says, as your poor father used to make jokes about, and call breeches; but I say, isn’t she a milk-and-water chit beside you, my gal? Didn’t you feel as if you ’ated her?”

“No, mother,” said Cora thoughtfully. “She’s different to what I expected. I don’t think she’ll live.”

“Don’t talk like that. Now, let’s see what about your noo dress.”

“And yours, mother?”

“Of course. And feathers.”

And as this conversation went on, Stuart Denville and his daughter Claire walked homeward, the latter with the gloom deepening, so it seemed, over her young life, the former with the six crisp notes riding lightly in his pocket, and the load of misery and shame growing heavier day by day.

Volume Two – Chapter Twelve.
In Society

It was a proud time for the MC, and he knew how it would be canvassed in Saltinville. All the principal people would have honoured his little home, and in the future he saw his fees and offerings doubled, and Claire well married – to Lord Carboro’. No, he could not say that, though the bait was glittering still before his eyes.

He was in the drawing-room waiting, with pretty May smiling out of her curls, hanging in her tawdry frame upon the wall; but Claire was not yet down.

If she would only forget that night and not avoid him as she did, how much less difficult this burden would be to bear.

He rang, and Isaac, in a new suit of livery, appeared.

“Send word to your mistress that it is time she was down, Isaac.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The cards on the tables?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the refreshments?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will ask Lady Drelincourt’s servant to stop and help wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the Earl of Carboro’s.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps it would be as well to keep Mr Burnett’s man also.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need say no more, Isaac, only that you will see that the tea and coffee are hot, and that the refreshments in the dining-room are ready in relays.”

“Yes, sir; everything shall be done, sir; and would you mind casting your eye over that, sir?”

“Certainly, I will do so, Isaac. Hem! An account, Isaac?”

“Yes, sir – wages, sir; and if you would make it convenient – ”

“My good Isaac,” said the MC blandly, “as you must be aware, gentlemen are in the habit sometimes of taking rather long credit, and of often being in debt. I might cite to you His Royal Highness. But no one troubles thereon, because it is well known that sooner or later His Royal Highness will pay his debts.”

“Yes, sir; of course, sir; but wages, sir – ”

“Are wanted, Isaac, of course. Now, my good Isaac, you must have seen how much occupied I have been of late. No: say no more now. I will look over your statement, and you shall be paid.”

A tremendous knock and ring cut short this little scene, and Denville wiped the dew from his face as he uttered a low sigh of relief.

“She will come down now. – Ah, my dear Mrs Barclay; my dear Barclay. Delighted to see you both.”

“I say, Denville, old fellow, you’re going it, eh?”

“My dear Barclay, a sheer necessity. You see how I have placed my son.”

“Umph! yes,” said the money-lender, with a chuckle; “but I’m no better off. You are. One less to keep, but at my expense.”

“But, my dear Barclay – ”

“All, it’s all very well, but you came to me to find the money for his outfit.”

“Now, look here, Jo-si-ah,” cried Mrs Barclay, who was a wonder of satin, feathers, and jewellery, “Mr Denville has been kind enough to ask us to his party, and I will not have another word said about bills and money. I’ve come to enjoy myself, and I mean to. There!”

“Bless the woman!” sighed Denville.

“And where’s Miss Claire? Oh, here she is. Oh, my dear, how lovable you look in your plain pearl satin. Oh, I never did! Only oughtn’t you to have a necklace on? I say, take me to your room, and let me lend you mine.”

She placed her plump hand upon a magnificent ruby necklet that she wore, but Claire checked her.

“No, no, no, Mrs Barclay,” she whispered.

“Well, p’raps you’re right, my dear. Nothing wouldn’t make you look better.”

“Let me compliment you too, Miss Denville,” said Barclay in his brusque way; and, after a smile and a few words, he turned back to talk to his host.

“I say, Denville – why, it was in that back room that – why, you’ve made it into a back drawing-room.”

“For God’s sake, Barclay!”

Denville caught at his visitor’s arm, and looked at him in a ghastly way.

“Eh? Why, you look scared. Ah, well, it was stupid to mention it at a time like this. Mustn’t allude to it when they are all here, eh?”

“For heaven’s sake, no.”

“All right, I won’t. I say, Denville, what do you think of that?”

He drew a case from his pocket, opened it, and displayed a necklace of large single diamonds, the sight of which made the MC start and shiver.

“Magnificent!” he faltered.

“I should think they are. All choice picked stones, sir. Belonged to a Countess.”

“To a Countess?” said Denville, in a faltering voice.

“Yes, sir. I say, your bread’s beginning to be buttered thick. Look here.”

He drew out another case as they stood alone in the front room.

“There’s a set of pearls, sir. There’s lustre and regularity. Two fifty guineas, Denville.”

“But, my dear Barclay,” said the host, striving to recover his equanimity, “why have you brought those here?”

“Why have I brought ’em? Don’t you know? Well, I’ll tell you. Old Carboro’ wants to pay a delicate attention to a lady he admires, and he bade me bring two or three things here to choose from. I mean to sell old Drelincourt the one he does not take. Look, I’ve two more lots.”

“But, my dear Barclay, surely you will not attempt to sell or barter here – in my house,” said Denville piteously.

“Not try? Oh, won’t I, though! Why, my dear Denville, you don’t suppose I came to waste time, do you? Not I.”

There was an announcement here, and Denville had to hide the feeling of annoyance mingled with pleasure that came upon him, for there could be no doubt in his own mind for whom the jewels were intended.

How would Claire treat the offer?

The guests began to arrive fast now, and the shabbiness of the candle-decked room was soon turned into a suitably subdued setting to the rich dresses which Mrs Barclay scanned in turn, and decided were not so good as her own.

The incident about the jewels troubled Denville more and more, and he found himself glancing from time to time at the beautiful woman in her simple, pearl-tinted satin, who was doing the honours of his house so gracefully.

“Yes,” he sighed, “worthy to be a Countess, but – ” He drew his breath hard. Poor as he was, it seemed too terrible a sacrifice.

Then the temptation came upon him very strongly again. Rich, admired, beautiful, an enviable position; and, once she was married, the terrible disclosure that would some day perhaps come would not affect her.

“Colonel Mellersh; Mr Richard Linnell,” announced Isaac; and a feeling of jealous anger against the young man he had been obliged to invite came over him, but had to be hidden by a smile as the two new-comers advanced to Claire.

Denville watched them keenly; but Claire’s face was as calm as if they had been total strangers. She gave them both a most courteous greeting. That was all.

“Lord Carboro’,” announced Isaac.

There was a little excitement here, as the wealthy old beau entered, looking very keen and sharp, but very old; and as Denville saw him take Claire’s hand, the feeling of elation was swept away by a cold, despairing chill. It was impossible.

And yet, as his lordship stood chatting to the beautiful girl, Denville noticed that there was a change in her. She seemed brighter and more animated. She smiled at the old man’s remarks, and once more the impossible seemed to be growing possible, for Claire was only a woman, after all.

Colonel Mellersh saw this too, and half sneeringly turned to Richard Linnell.

“There,” he said, “much good you’ve done by making me bring you. I believe your syren has captivated old Carboro’.”

“Just look at the old man,” whispered Mrs Barclay to her husband. “Why, I declare, he’s quite gallant.”

“Hold your tongue, and don’t you let it go, old woman. Here he is.”

“Pinch of your snuff, Barclay,” said the old dandy, coming up smiling. “My compliments to you, Mrs Barclay. You look charming.”

“Oh, my lord!” said Mrs Barclay, rising to curtsey, and saying to herself, “As if I didn’t know better than that.”

“I can’t think what you were about to marry such an ugly old scoundrel as Barclay here. Have you brought anything?”

He took Barclay’s arm, and they walked into the back drawing-room, where there were a couple of card-tables.

“Dick,” said Colonel Mellersh, “old Carboro’s going to borrow money, or else – by Jove, he’s getting a present from him for your beloved.”

“I thought you were my friend, Mellersh,” said Linnell, with his brow knitting.

“So I am. Look.”

“I am not a spy,” said Linnell coldly, and he turned away.

“What have you brought?” said Lord Carboro’.

“These diamonds, my lord, this string of pearls, and a large diamond bracelet. Look at these diamonds, my lord – ”

“Don’t talk. I don’t want everybody to see. Lay them on the table. No: show me the pearls.”

“They are perfect, my lord, and – ”

“Hold your tongue, man. That will do.”

“I’ll slip out this bracelet, my lord. No; I’ll go and give it to my wife. She shall put it on, and you can go and talk to her, and see how beautiful it is in design.”

“Hold your tongue, man. The pearls will do. How much?”

“Three hundred guineas, my lord. They are – ”

“Bah! Robbery! I’ll give you two hundred down. Do you think I want credit?”

“But, my lord, I should lose heavily.”

“And a doosid good thing too, Barclay. You want bleeding. Am I to have them?”

“Two fifty, my lord, as you are so old a friend.”

“Two hundred – in an instant. Yes, or no?”

“Well, yes, my lord.”

“Give me another pinch of snuff, Barclay, and hold the pearls in your hand. Never mind the case. Thanks, that will do. Come for the money in the morning.”

The exchange was ingeniously effected, but Colonel Mellersh saw it, and his lips tightened as he glanced at Richard Linnell.

“He’s got the pearls, old woman,” said Barclay, going back to his wife where she sat fanning herself, and alone.

“How much?”

“Two hundred guineas.”

“Let’s see; you gave the Hon. Mrs Bedam fifty for ’em, didn’t you, Josiah?”

“Yes; but they’re worth a hundred, honestly.”

“And is he going to give ’em to Claire?”

“Don’t know. Wait.”

“Lady Drelincourt, Sir Matthew Bray, Colonel Lascelles,” announced Isaac; and, before the small talk was half over, he shouted again: “Sir Harry Payne, Major Rockley, Mr Morton Denville.”

Richard Linnell told himself that he was no spy, but he could not keep his eyes from the group, as the officers entered, and were received by Claire.

It was a crucial meeting, but she bore it well, bowing rather stiffly to Major Rockley as he advanced in a deprecating way; and he was evidently about to stay by her side, but Isaac announced:

“Mrs and Miss Dean.”

There was a little buzz of excitement.

“Mrs Pontardent.”

This lady meant to be before her protégées; but she was in time after all, and after a quiet, unaffected welcome from Claire, they formed a little group by themselves, about whom, like flies attracted by bright colours, the officers buzzed.

Mrs Pontardent was a tall, good-looking, lady-like woman, who patronised the Master of the Ceremonies when they spoke, and complimented him upon the appearance of “his little girl.”

“You must bring her to one of my evenings, Denville.”

He would have said “Impossible” had he dared. As it was, he said he should be charmed, and this set him thinking about how much money was won and lost there, when fresh arrivals took up his attention, and soon after Isaac announced:

“Mr and Mrs Frank Burnett.”

Claire uttered a sigh of relief as she shook hands with her sister and brother-in-law, the latter pairing off directly with one of the officers.

“Well,” said May eagerly, “is all right?”

“Yes, dear; but they want money, and I have none.”

“Oh, dear, money again! Well, I’ll see.”

“But, May dear, you must do something more.”

“What do you mean?”

“This task grows more difficult every day. You must really make some arrangements, or I shall be compromised.”

“Well, how shall I be? do you want me to be compromised? I declare you have no more feeling than a stone.”

“May – dear May!”

“It’s quite true. I’m disgraced by my family at every turn. What with brothers turning common soldiers, and horrors in the house, and – ”

“My dear Mrs Burnett, this is an unexpected pleasure,” said Sir Harry Payne, coming up with Lord Carboro’, who managed to cut in before Rockley, who was approaching Claire.

“Oh, what a wicked, wicked story-teller you are!” said May, with childish playfulness, as Sir Harry remained by her side, while Lord Carboro’ led off Claire. “You knew I was coming.”

“I did, I did,” he whispered passionately.

“Hush! Don’t go on like that. Everybody is watching us.”

“Then when will you give me a chance to see you alone?”

“Oh, I couldn’t think of such a thing.”

“May! dearest May.”

“Hush!”

The conversation was carried on in a low tone, and then May exclaimed:

“Oh, impossible!”

“It is not,” he said eagerly. “It is simplicity itself.”

He whispered again, and May Burnett shook her head.

“I implore you,” he whispered. “You know all I feel, but you are as hard and cold as you are beautiful. There, I swear if you do not consent, I’ll – ”

“Pistols, or off the pier?” said May, with a provoking smile.

“Oh, you are maddening!” he exclaimed. “I believe you would like to see me lying dead.”

“Oh, no; I don’t like to see dead people,” she said mockingly.

“All these weary months, and not one short interview. You are playing with me. Curse him!”

“Curse whom?” said May coolly.

“That husband of yours. I’ll pick a quarrel with him next time we play cards and shoot him.”

“Ha – ha – ha – ha – ha!”

It was a sweetly innocent sounding little trill of laughter as ever passed from a provoking pouting rosebud of a mouth; and Claire heard it, and turned paler than ordinary, as she saw in whose company her sister was.

“You will excuse me now, Lord Carboro’,” she said. “I have my duties as hostess to attend to.”

“One moment,” he said, placing his back to the company, and gazing with a look of such reverence as he had not for long years felt for woman in the sweet face before him.

Claire looked up at him half wonderingly.

“I am a very old friend of your father, Miss Denville.”

“Oh, yes, my lord. I remember you when I was quite a little child.”

“And now,” he said, “I am getting to be an old man, and you have grown into a beautiful woman. Will you – do not be alarmed; no one can see – will you accept this little offering from so old a friend, and wear it for his sake?”

He held out the lustrous necklace as he spoke, believing that they were quite unseen; but it was not so, for Colonel Mellersh said softly to Linnell:

“There, Dick, what did I tell you?”

“Lord Carboro’,” said Claire, with quiet dignity, “I could only take so valuable a jewel from – from – ”

“A very dear friend, my child. Let me be that friend.”

She looked at him searchingly, and then dropped her eyes, saying nothing, but drawing back with a slight gesture that was unmistakable, and glided away.

“The mentor is not always right, Colonel Mellersh,” said Richard Linnell quietly. “I feel as if I had been playing the spy, but I do not regret it, from the effect it must have on you.”

“Egad, she’s a very queen,” said Lord Carboro’, as he quietly took out his snuff-box, and dropped the necklet into his pocket. “By George, sir, I never thought there was such a woman in the world.”

The conversation was at its height, and Claire twice over managed to intercept Sir Harry when he was approaching her sister, but only to be snubbed for her pains by May. She was conscious that Rockley was seeking an opportunity to approach her, but she gave him none, her position as hostess giving her plenty of chances for avoiding those she did not wish to meet, in attending and introducing others.

“Hang the girl! she’s a regular sorceress,” said Colonel Mellersh to himself. “She’ll end by charming me. I want a game at cards, and if I leave Dick, he’ll be hanging on to her strings directly.”

“Well, mother, are you satisfied?” said Cora, as the evening went by.

“Satisfied? Oh, I don’t mind, my dear, so long as you get on. And you are, you know, sitting here among the big people, I say, Cory, I am proud of you.”

“That’s right, mother.”

“But I say, what did Colonel Mellersh say to you as he went to the card-table?”

“Asked me, as any gentleman would, whether he should take me down to have some refreshment.”

“Well, that was kind and neighbourly. I rather like him, but I do wish you wouldn’t encourage that young Linnell so.”

“Mother!”

“There, I’ve done. I won’t say another word. Don’t fly out at me here. Now, that is a man to admire.”

“What, Mr Richard Linnell?”

“No: stuff, Cory. You know who I mean – that Major Rockley. I couldn’t hear a word he said to you. I wouldn’t, for I don’t like to stand in your way. I say, Cory, he’ll be a Colonel and a General some day. Why not him?”

“Would you like to know what he said to me, mother?”

“Yes; he did quite make love to you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Hah, I thought so.”

Mrs Dean’s rings crackled as she rubbed her hands, and metaphorically hugged herself.

“That comes of getting into good society, Cora. Ladies drop into engagements without having to look after the gentlemen. You see, they are so brought together like. That Denville puts a sort of stamp on you like, and then you’re in society, and handsome Majors come and throw themselves at your feet.”

“Yes,” said Cora, speaking through her teeth, “and insult you, and dare to speak to you as if you were some beautiful toy brought and set up for their amusement.”

“Cory!”

“I tell you that every word he spoke to me in his mocking gallant way was an insult, and made my fingers tingle and my face burn. Mother, I’ve found out that there are two classes of men in the world.”

“Oh, my gracious! now she’s off again,” sighed Mrs Dean.

“There are those who naturally honour and respect woman with all the manly chivalry of their nature, and those who look upon her as a being several degrees lower than themselves. Mother, that man made me feel to-night as if I could kill him.”

“Oh dear; oh dear!” sighed Mrs Dean in a whisper to her daughter, “if this is coming into society, and you are going on talking in that savage way, we had better stop at home. I expect you snubbed the Major in that orty way of yours, and he has gone after that chit of Denville’s.”

“Where? Has he mother?” cried Cora, in an excited whisper.

“Yes; he is bending over her and making big eyes at her. I say, he is a handsome man, Cory, and if I know anything, he’s regularly took with her.”

“Are you sure, mother?”

“Sure? Just as if I couldn’t tell in a moment. You might get him away from her if you liked, I dare say. Look at that.”

She drew back a little that her child might see where Rockley was speaking in a markedly deferential manner to Claire; and Cora’s colour went and came, and her bosom heaved in unison.

“Bless your ’art, Cory, I ain’t lived to my age without picking up a little. Why, since I’ve been sitting here to-night I’ve picked up no end, and if I was a scandalous old woman I could make any amount of mischief.”

Cora did not answer, for just then Lord Carboro’ came up.

“Let me take you down to have a jelly, Miss Dean,” he said.

Cora looked up at him and was about to refuse; but there was such a quiet, respectful look in the old man’s eyes that she took his arm.

“I’ll come and fetch you afterwards, Mrs Dean,” he said and they crossed the room.

“There,” said Mrs Dean. “Now I’m a happy woman. It might be after all. Countess – not a Shakespeare countess or duchess for six nights only, as it says in the bills, but altogether. Hah, I paid for this party, and I don’t grudge the money, and Denville’s made himself a friend. I was going to say to my gal: there’s that Sir Matthew Bray making up to old Lady Drelincourt, and that Sir Harry Payne to Mrs Burnett, and Major Rockley to Claire Denville, and young Linnell as jealous as can be. And now, to top off with and finish the scene, Lord Carboro’ comes and takes off my Cora. Well, we’re in society at last.”

“Look here, old woman, this bracelet case is banging against my leg horribly, and if I have two things old Drelincourt will hesitate between them and take neither. If I’ve only one she may take it. I think I can get her alone now. Here, slip this into your pocket.”

“Oh, but Jo-si-ah, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, stupid; you’ve got lots of room. Here, I want to clear my expenses to-night.”

“Why, you have, Jo-si-ah.”

“Pooh! That’s nothing. Here, catch hold.”

He slipped the case into his wife’s hand, and she took it and passed it under a fold of her satin dress.

Barclay strolled away to try and get hold of Lady Drelincourt, and just then Denville came up.

“My dear Mrs Barclay,” he said, “you have been sitting all alone so long, and I could not get to you, and poor Claire is so busy.”

“Oh, don’t you mind me, Mr Denville. I’m nobody.”

“But you must be faint.”

“Well, since you put it like that, Mr Denville, I really have got such a dreadful feeling of sinking inside me that if it was only a sangwidge and a glass of sherry, I’d say bless you.”

“Come then, my dear madam,” said Denville. “This way.”

She rose and took the offered arm, and Lord Carboro’ smiled as the florid little woman went by him. Then he drew back by a curtain, and began taking snuff and watching Claire, as she now stood still, and he saw her meet Linnell’s eyes just as Rockley, who had been watching his opportunity, was going up to her.

Linnell looked at her with eyes that said, “May I come?” and he read that long, calm, trustful gaze to say “Yes.”

“Very nicely done. In a sweet maidenly way,” said Lord Carboro’. “How cleverly a woman can do that sort of thing, making one man a shield against another. By George! she is a queen – a woman of whom a man might be proud.”

Rockley went scowling back, and threw himself on the seat where Mrs Barclay had been; and from where he stood Lord Carboro’ looked at him sneeringly.

“Old, worn out, withered as I am, handsome Rockley, if Claire Denville became my wife, I shouldn’t care a snap for you. Ugh! why, I must be standing just where old Teigne was smothered. How horrible! Pish, what matters! Why should I care, when her dear sister is laughing and showing her false teeth there just where the foot of the bedstead used to be. Sweet girlish creature; she’s ogling that fat dragoon, and she’ll marry him if she can.”

He took another pinch of snuff.

“Hallo!” he muttered, “Payne after that little strawberry cream of a woman. We shall have a scandal there, as sure as fate, and – good girl, she sees through her and cuts the enemy out. Claire, my dear, you are indeed a little queen among women. I’ve never given you half the credit you deserve, and – damme! – never! – yes – no – yes! – the scoundrel! Well, that comes of reckless play. Curse it all, there must not be such a scandal as this. Where’s Denville?”

He looked round, but the Master of the Ceremonies had not returned with Mrs Barclay.

Everybody was fully engaged, laughing, flirting, or card-playing. Assignations were being made; money was changing hands, and the candles were burning down and guttering at the sides, as Lord Carboro’ exclaimed:

“Hang it! I did not think he could stoop to be such a scoundrel as that!”

Volume Two – Chapter Thirteen.
Major Rockley’s Mistake

“Now, Barclay, you are a wicked flatterer,” said Lady Drelincourt, as she sat out in the balcony, with the money-lender leaning over her after leading her there and placing a chair.

“I shall risk being rude in my rough way,” said Barclay in a low voice, “and repeat my words. I said those lustrous diamonds would look perfect on your ladyship’s beautiful throat.”

“Now, you don’t mean it, Barclay. I am not so young as I was, and my throat is not beautiful now.”

“There, I’m a plain man,” said Barclay; “I’ve no time for fine sayings and polished phrases, and what I say is this: I know your ladyship must be forty.”

“Yes, Barclay, I am,” said Lady Drelincourt, with a sigh.

“I’m fifty-five,” he said, “and what I say is, how a woman with a skin like yours can utter such deprecatory sentiments is a puzzle. Why, half the women here would be proud of such a skin. Look how they paint. Pah!”

“They do, Barclay; they do. Are the diamonds of good water?”

“Look,” he said, holding them before him.

“No, no; some one in the room will see.”

“I’ll take care of that, my lady. Look at them. I daren’t tell you whom they once belonged to, but they came to me through accidents at the gaming-table. They are perfect in match and size. Lady Drelincourt, you would not be doing yourself justice if you did not buy them. I wish I dare clasp them on.”

“No, no; not now. How much did you say?”

“I am giving them away at four hundred guineas, Lady Drelincourt.”

“Oh, but that’s a terrible price, Barclay!”

“They will be worth more in a year or two, Lady Drelincourt.”

“Oh, but I could not spare so much money.”

“Pooh! what of that! If your ladyship likes the diamonds – ”

“I do like them, Barclay.”

“I should be happy to give your ladyship what credit you require.”

“Really, this is very naughty of me, Barclay; it is, indeed, but I suppose I must have them. There, slip them into my hand. You can send me the case to-morrow.”

“I will, my lady. You’ll never regret the purchase, and I am delighted that they will be worn by the queen of Saltinville society.”

“Go away, flatterer, and tell Sir Matthew Bray to bring me my salts. I left them on the chimney-piece.”

“I fly,” said Barclay; and he went through the rooms to perform his commission, Sir Matthew hurrying to get to her ladyship’s side, while Barclay turned to meet his wife who was just returning with their host.

“Hallo!”

“Oh, I am so much better now, Jo-si-ah. I was so faint.”

“Ah, Denville, I want a word with you,” said Lord Carboro’, coming up box in hand.

“I say, old lady,” whispered Barclay, “got that bracelet safe?”

“Oh, yes, that’s all right; but you can’t have it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s right down at the very bottom of my pocket, where there’s no getting at it at all. But you don’t want it now?”

“No. I’ve sold the diamond necklace.”

“No!”

“I have, to that old hag, Drelincourt.”

“Did she pay you?”

“No; but we’ve got deeds worth four times as much, and I shall charge her interest until she pays.”

“Then you’ve had a splendid night, Jo-si-ah.”

“Glorious!” he said, rubbing his hands.

“Then I want a rubber of whist, and I shall see if I can’t win a few guineas myself.”

“All right. I’ll get you to a table.”

“Denville, old fellow,” said Lord Carboro’, chatting with his host and taking snuff from the box given by the Prince, “I’ve a bad habit of seeing everything that goes on around me.”

“Your lordship is most observant.”

“I’m sorry to say I am; and whether we become relatives or not, Denville, I take an interest in you and your belongings.”

The Master of the Ceremonies looked up in alarm.

“Take a bit of good advice, Denville.”

“My lord!”

“And keep a tighter rein over your daughter.”

“Your lordship’s opinions seem to change easily,” said Denville bitterly. “The other day my daughter Claire – ”

“Pooh! Absurd, man! Stop. She is perfect. A princess could not have been a more charming hostess. I did not mean her. Look there!”

“Mrs Burnett with Sir Harry Payne?”

“Yes; the fellow’s a blackguard. The little woman married a fool – ”

“My lord!”

“Who neglects her for drink and play. Don’t be offended, Denville. I am your friend. You have had scandal enough in your family; you must have no more.”

Denville drew a long breath.

“Your lordship is right; but you must not misunderstand my dear child.”

“Pretty, sweet, young, and most impressionable, Denville. Constant dropping will wear a stone. Don’t let the water drop on it any more.”

“My lord, you may trust me.”

“Stop, Denville. Another thing in confidence. You must get it back, treating it all as an error.”

“My lord, you alarm me. Get it back?”

“I can’t help it, Denville. Do you know that sometimes dashing fellows, ruined by play, have gone on the road mounted and masked, and, pistol in hand, have robbed?”

“Yes, my lord. But we have no highwaymen here.”

“Don’t be too sure. Did you know that Barclay, at my wish, brought some jewellery?”

“Yes, but not at my wish, my lord! I felt aggrieved – insulted.”

“Forgive him and me. It was at my request. I wanted to make an offering – a string of pearls – to your daughter; and, like the sweet true lady she is, she has refused to accept them.”

Denville flushed and turned pale as he glanced proudly at his child, where she stood talking to Colonel Mellersh.

“I saw Barclay give his wife a case with a diamond bracelet in it, to hold while he went to old Drelincourt.”

“Yes, my lord. What of that?”

“Mrs Barclay did not put it in her pocket, but let it slip down on the carpet.”

“Where was she seated, my lord?”

“Never mind; the diamond bracelet was found.”

“Thank goodness!” gasped Denville.

“By Major Rockley.”

“Who gave it back?”

“No; who has pocketed it, and will keep it; while Barclay will most likely credit you.”

“Impossible, my lord!”

“Possible, Denville. I tell you there must be no more robberies here. Hang it, man, stand up.”

“A sudden giddiness, my lord. I am better now. I will get the jewels back. But, one moment, my lord, are you really quite sure?”

“I am certain.”

“But Major Rockley may mean – ”

“Hush, Denville. What do you know of handsome Rockley? Do you think he will give the jewels back if he can get them away? Act; at once.”

“Suppose he is wrong,” said Denville to himself, as he went off on his painful task. “What an insult to an officer – the Prince’s friend.”

“I dare not do it,” he said after a pause. “It must be some mistake. Such an act would be the work of a common thief. He must be wrong.”

He shrank from his task, but he felt that it must be done, for how could he let it go forth that there had been another diamond robbery from his house. It was impossible.

As he hesitated he caught sight of Lord Carboro’ watching him. Barclay too was there, evidently about to speak to him, and he felt that he must. Better to offend Major Rockley than have another scandal.

He mingled among his guests with a word here and there, sending some downstairs, and interfering in a tête-à-tête between May and Sir Harry Payne, who had at last won a promise from the giddy little creature to whom he was paying court. He then went up to Rockley, snuff-box in hand, and addressed him as he was leaning against the chimney-piece.

“I’m afraid our little reunion has no charms for you, Major Rockley,” he said.

“On the contrary, my dear Denville, I am delighted.”

“But you have had no refreshment. Pray come down.”

“Without a lady?”

“Yes, without a lady. Or, no, I will speak now, and you can go afterwards. A little mistake, Major Rockley. You’ll pardon me; a little mistake.”

His heart sank as he spoke, and he trembled almost guiltily at the task he had in hand.

The Major’s dark eyes flashed as he scowled at him.

“If you mean, sir, that by addressing – ”

“No, no, Major Rockley; a little mistake. You thought you dropped your snuff-box.”

“I thought I dropped my snuff-box, sir? Are you mad?”

“You’ll pardon me, Major Rockley, no. You made a mistake; it is my duty to see the matter right. You imagined that you dropped your snuff-box, and you picked it up, when you were seated a little while ago.”

“Well, sir?”

If Lord Carboro’ had made a mistake, how dare he meet that man again?

“You do not seem to understand me, Major Rockley. The case you picked up was not a snuff-box, but contained jewels belonging to one of my guests.”

“I did not know your guests carried their jewels in cases, Mr Denville,” said the Major, with a forced laugh. “They seem to be wearing them.”

“It is so easy to make a mistake, Major Rockley,” continued the MC, on finding that it was more simple to attack than he had expected.

“I never make mistakes, sir,” said the Major haughtily.

“I should not have spoken to you like this, sir, if the act had not been seen,” said Denville, angrily now.

“Act? Seen? Good heavens, sir! Do you take me for a thief?” said Rockley, in a hoarse whisper. “Do you think – why – confound! I am astounded!”

He had been angrily thrusting a hand into first one and then another pocket, bringing out a snuff-box, then a handkerchief, and lastly the little morocco case.

“That must be it, Major Rockley,” said the MC coldly; and their eyes met with a curiously long stare.

“As you say, Mr Denville, mistakes are so easily made. I am in your debt for this – I shall never forget it. You will excuse me now, I am sure. The little matter has agitated me more than I should care to own.”

The MC bowed.

“Seen, you said, I think? Was it you who saw me pick up that case – by accident?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you oblige me with the name of the person?”

“It is not necessary,” said Denville. “I am master of the ceremonies, sir, of my own house. This affair, I may tell you, will be kept private by us both.”

Major Rockley bowed and turned to gaze round the room, to see if he could select Denville’s informant; but there was no one whom he felt ready to blame but Richard Linnell – Barclay he knew it could not be – or was it that handsome Cora Dean?

He turned again close by the door, and tried to catch Claire Denville’s eyes; but she was talking gravely to Linnell, so, half bowing to Denville, he said quietly:

“Thank you for excusing me. Of course, I rely upon the discretion of yourself and friend. Adieu.”

“Adieu,” and he left with curses and deadly threats in his breast.

“Had man ever such luck!” he hissed, as he strode by the house, glancing up at the well-lit balcony and drawing-room, from which he turned with an involuntary shudder. “Curse the old idiot, but I’ll serve him out for this presently. I wonder whether the old dancing-master cares for his girl and boy? Well,” he added, with a peculiar smile, “we shall soon see.”

Volume Two – Chapter Fourteen.
At the Card-Table

“Friends?” Richard Linnell was saying, as he stood looking earnestly at Claire. “Nothing more?”

“No,” she said, in a low, sad voice; “always, come what may, your grateful friend.”

She turned to her sister, who was watching her, and met her with:

“Claire dear, you’re going mad. That man hasn’t a penny.”

“Well?” said Claire gravely. “And you are encouraging him.”

“As you are encouraging Sir Harry Payne? No, May; you are mistaken.”

“I declare if you are going to insult me I will not stay,” cried May, turning scarlet. “It is disgraceful. It is cruel. If I could only find Frank – ”

Just then a loud burst of angry voices came from one of the card-tables. It was eleven o’clock; there had been refreshments; the room was very hot, and the play, for ladies, high; and now the voice of the Master of the Ceremonies was heard in protest.

“Ladies – ladies – I beg – I must request – ”

“Order my carriage directly, Sir Matthew. It serves me right for coming to such a place,” cried Lady Drelincourt.

“Yes; you had no business here,” cried Mrs Barclay.

“And mixing with such low people,” cried Lady Drelincourt.

“Low people? Better be low than not honest.”

“Oh! oh! – Denville, are you going to allow this insult to my face – from such a woman as that?” cried Lady Drelincourt.

“Hush, ladies! Pray – pray!” cried Denville.

“Hold your tongue and come away, old lady,” said Barclay, in a croaking whisper.

“I won’t, Jo-si-ah; not till she pays me my four guineas, I declare,” cried Mrs Barclay aloud. “She’s been doing nothing but cheat and rook ever since I sat down to play.”

“Sir Matthew Bray, my carriage.”

“And gone on shameful, and pretending it was all mistakes. I declare it’s abominable.”

“Ladies – ladies!”

“Will you be quiet, old girl? Hold your tongue.”

“I will not, Josiah,” cried Mrs Barclay, who, like many good-tempered, amiable women, took a great deal to make her angry, but when she was really excited, was not to be suppressed. “What I say is – ”

“Oh – oh – oh – oh!”

A series of wild, hysterical cries from a couch in the front room, and Claire ran gladly from the painful scene to where her sister was in a violent hysterical fit, which, with the exit of Lady Drelincourt on Sir Matthew Bray’s arm, after a withering glance round, quite stopped Mrs Barclay’s vituperative attack.

“Think of that now,” cried the latter lady. “Me again. I ought not to come out.”

“That you oughtn’t,” growled Barclay. “Next thing will be you’ve lost that bracelet.”

“Nonsense, Josiah. Let me help you, Claire dear. I am so sorry, but that wretched cheating old woman was either kicking me under the table in mistake for that Sir Matthew Bray, or else cheating. I am so – so sorry. It’s ’sterricks, that’s what it is.”

“Yes, that’s what it is,” said Mrs Dean; “and if I might say a word, I should tell Mr Denville that he couldn’t do better than behave like Lady Macbeth.”

“Oh, mother!” whispered Cora impatiently.

“Now what’s the good of you ‘oh mothering’ me, my dear? What could be better than for Mr Denville to say to his guests, ‘Don’t be on the order of your going, but go at once’?”

“Miss Dean,” said Sir Harry, “your mamma speaks the words of wisdom. It is the wisest thing. Come, gentlemen, we can be of no service here. By Jove, she does it to perfection.”

Mrs Dean’s words broke up the party, and the visitors had nearly all gone, when, in answer to cold bathing and smelling-salts, Mrs Burnett began to recover; and just then Frank Burnett, who had been, no one but Isaac knew where, came up to make a fresh scene as he threw himself upon his knees beside the couch, imploring in maudlin tones his darling May to speak and tell him what it was.

“Oh, my head, my head!” sobbed the stricken wife. “My head, my head!”

“You’d better let her be, Mr Burnett, sir,” said Mrs Barclay. “It’s my belief that quiet’s the thing.”

“Yes, and we’ll go,” said Mrs Dean. “Good-night, Miss Denville. Good-night, Mr Denville, and thank you so much. Come, Cora, love.”

Cora Dean glanced at Richard Linnell and Mellersh as she advanced to say good-night; for they were going to the same house, and it was possible, as the distance was short, that they would see them home.

“Good-night, Mr Denville,” she said.

“We will say good-night too,” said Mellersh, “unless we can be of any use.”

“Oh, no,” said their host. “She will soon be better – a mere trifle.”

“Yes, please let me be,” said Mrs Burnett. “I shall soon be better now.”

“Good-night,” said Cora, holding out her hand to the woman she told herself she hated with all her heart.

But it was in a spirit of triumph, for Richard Linnell was going to walk home with her.

“Good-night,” said Claire, smiling in her face with a calm ingenuous look. “I am glad we have met.”

How it came about they neither of them knew, but it was Claire’s seeking; she was suffering so from that heart hunger – that painful searching for the love and sympathy of some woman of her age, while Cora Dean’s handsome face was so near to her, and she kissed her as one sister might another.

“Well, I never,” muttered Mrs Dean as she went down the stairs. “Think of that, and you as don’t like her.”

The next minute Cora Dean and her mother were walking along the Parade with Linnell and Mellersh on either side, chatting about the evening.

“One cigar, Dick, before we go to bed,” said Mellersh, when they had been sitting together in his room for some time, after parting from their upstairs neighbours.

“I’m willing,” said Linnell, “for I feel as if I could not sleep.”

They lit their cigars, let themselves out, strolled down to the edge of the water, walked along by it in front of the Parade, and went upon the cliff again, to go back silently along the path till they neared the house where they had passed the evening, walking very slowly, and ending by stopping to lean over the cliff rails and gaze out to sea.

How long this had lasted they did not know, but all at once, as Mellersh turned, he gripped Richard Linnell by the arm and pointed.

Linnell saw it at the same moment: the figure of a man climbing over a balcony; and as they watched they could just see the gleam of one of the windows as it was evidently opened and he passed in.

“Dick!” whispered Mellersh; “what does that mean?”

“The same as the night that poor old woman was slain. Quick! Come on!”

“Stop!” said Mellersh. “Here’s another!”

Volume Two – Chapter Fifteen.
Mrs Burnett’s Seizure

“I think we had better go too,” said Mrs Barclay at last. “But are you quite sure we can do no good?”

“No: indeed no, Mrs Barclay; and I am so much obliged to you for staying,” replied Claire.

“It was the least I could do, my dear, after making all that miserable rumpus about a few paltry guineas. Your papa will never forgive me.”

“Indeed, there is nothing to forgive, my dear Mrs Barclay. It was natural that you should be indignant,” said Denville politely.

“Thank you very much for saying so, but it’s always the way if I go out, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s something else wrong,” cried Mrs Barclay piteously. “I’m a most unfortunate creature.”

“There, put on your things and let’s go,” said Barclay huffily. “Give me that case. I’ll carry it now, or you’ll lose that.”

Mrs Barclay began to thrust her hand into her pocket, and Denville was talking to his son-in-law at the other end of the room, while Claire bent over and kissed her sister.

“Are you better now, dear?”

“No-o! Oh, my head! – my head!”

“My darling!” cried Burnett, coming back and bringing with him a strong smell of cigars and bad wine.

“Don’t, Frank. Don’t you see how ill I am?”

“Yes, yes, my own, but the carriage is waiting. Let me help you down, and let’s go home.”

“Oh! My gracious! Oh!” shrieked Mrs Barclay.

“Oh! – oh! – oh! – oh!” sobbed May Burnett, again in a worse fit than before.

“Now you’ve done it again,” cried Barclay angrily. “There never was such a woman. Here, come along home.”

“The case – the bracelet, Jo-si-ah!”

“Well. What about it?”

“I knew something would happen. I felt it coming.”

“Stop! Where’s that diamond bracelet, woman?”

“It’s gone, Jo-si-ah. I’ve lost it. It’s gone.”

“A two hundred pound bracelet, and gone!” roared Barclay. “Eh, what? Thank ye, Denville. How did you come by it?”

Denville, who was standing in a graceful attitude, smilingly offering the case, explained that Mrs Barclay had let it fall beneath the seat when she thought that she was placing it in her pocket.

“Oh, Mr Denville,” cried Mrs Barclay, “you are a dear good man!”

“Denville! Thank ye!” said Barclay, shaking hands. “You might have stuck to that, and I should have been no wiser. I shan’t forget this. Good-night, old man, good-night.”

“Coarse, but very kindly,” said Denville, after Mrs Barclay had made Claire’s face wet with tears and kisses, and he had seen the pair to the door.

“Yes,” said Burnett; “they’re a rough couple. Come, May, no nonsense. Get up. I’m not going to have my horses kept waiting all night.”

May made an effort to rise, but sank back, sobbing hysterically:

“My head! – my head!”

“Here, give her some brandy, Claire,” cried Burnett.

“No, no, no. It makes it worse.”

“Well, it will be better to-morrow. Come along.”

“No, no, I cannot bear it. Oh, my head! – my head!”

“Let me bathe it with the eau de Cologne,” said Claire tenderly.

“No, no. I cannot bear it.”

“Then come home,” cried Burnett.

“No, no,” moaned his wife. “I’m so ill – so ill. Papa – couldn’t I stay here to-night – my own old little room?”

“Yes, yes, my darling,” said Denville tenderly.

“I am so ill, papa. My head throbs so if I move it.”

“Let her stay, Frank,” said Claire sympathisingly.

“Not I. What! go home without her? I’ll be hanged if I do!” cried Burnett pettishly. “She’ll be all right as soon as she gets out into the air. Now, May, jump up.”

He caught her by the arm, but May uttered a wail.

“Frank, dear, you are cruel,” said Claire.

“You mind your own business,” said the irritable little fellow sharply. “She has got to come home with me.”

“I – I – I can’t, Frank. I am so ill.”

“Nonsense! Sick headache. I often have them. You’ve taken too much wine.”

“She has not had any, Frank,” said Claire indignantly.

“Then she ought to have had some. That’s the reason. You hold your tongue. Now, madam, jump up.”

The MC had stood looking on, with his face working, but saying no word till now that Burnett caught his wife roughly by both hands and tried to pull her to her feet.

“Stop!” he cried firmly. “Really, Frank Burnett, you are ungentle in the extreme.”

“Here, I know what I’m doing,” he retorted. “She’s my wife.”

“And she’s my daughter, sir,” cried Denville haughtily; “and while I am by no half-tipsy man shall insult her.”

“Half-tipsy? Who’s half-tipsy? This is the result of coming here, sir.”

“Where I have been on thorns for the last two hours, lest my guests should see what a state you were in.”

“State? What do you mean?”

“I will not expose you more before your young wife,” said Denville quietly. “We are both angry, and had better say good-night. May, do you feel well enough to go home?”

“No; oh no, papa.”

“You hear, Frank Burnett. Claire, you can easily get her bedroom ready.”

“Look here, I shan’t stay,” cried Burnett. “I shan’t stay here.”

“Well, go home then. We will take care of her, you may depend.”

“It’s all nonsense. She shall come home.”

“My child is not well enough to go home,” retorted Denville.

“Frank dear, don’t be obstinate, for May’s sake,” said Claire. “There, go home, dear. I’ll get her to bed soon, and she’ll be better in the morning.”

Burnett looked from one to the other with his teeth set, and was about to burst out into an angry tirade; but he met the firm, cold gaze of his father-in-law fixed upon him, and it was irresistible. It literally looked him down; and, with an impatient curse, he left the house and banged the door.

Directly after they heard the rattle of carriage-wheels, and May uttered a sigh of relief as she watched the MC walk round the room extinguishing the candles.

“Oh, papa dear,” she sobbed, “he does behave so badly to me!”

“My child!” said Denville sadly, as he bent down and kissed her. “You are weary and excited to-night. Pray say no more.”

He left the room, and went downstairs to bid the servants leave everything till morning, and go to bed; and as the door closed Claire knelt down beside her sister, and laid her hand upon her burning forehead.

“That’s nice,” sighed May; and then she sat up suddenly, glanced round, and flung her arms round Claire’s neck to hide her face in her breast, and burst into a passionate fit of sobbing.

“Oh, hush, hush, May, my darling,” whispered Claire tenderly, as she kissed and caressed the pretty little head, which was jerked up again in an angry, spasmodic way.

“You saw – you heard,” she cried, with her face flushed and her eyes flashing, as she talked in a quick, low, excited manner. “You blamed me for loving poor Louis. Why, he was all that was gentle and kind. He loved me in his fierce Italian way, and he was so jealous that he would have killed me if I had given him cause. But so tender and loving; while this nasty, hateful little Frank – ”

“May: oh, hush!”

“I won’t hush. I hate him. I despise him. A mean, shabby, spiteful little wretch! You saw him to-night. He pinched me, and wrung my wrists. He often hurts me.”

“May! – May!”

“It’s true. He strikes me, too; and I tell you I hate him.”

“May! Your husband, whom you have sworn to honour and love!”

“And I don’t either, and I never shall,” cried May sharply.

“You must, you must, May, my darling. There, there; you are flushed and excited with your head being so bad, and Frank was not so gentle as he might have been. He was vexed because you had turned ill.”

“Nasty, fretful wretch!”

“May!”

“I don’t care; he is,” cried the little foolish thing, looking wonderfully like an angry child as she spoke.

“Hush! I will not let you speak of your husband like that, May.”

“Husband! A contemptible little tipsy wretch who bought me of papa because I was pretty. I loathe him, I tell you. Papa ought to have been ashamed of himself for selling me as he did.”

“May! May! little sister!” said Claire, weeping silently as she drew her baby head to her bosom, and tried to stay the flow of bitter words that came.

“Horses and carriages, and servants and dresses, and nothing else but misery. I tell you – I don’t care! If he ever beats me again I’ll run away from him, that I will.”

“No, no, little passionate, tender heart,” said Claire lovingly. “You are ill and troubled to-night. There, there. You shall sleep quietly to-night under the old roof. Why, May dear, it seems like the dear old times, and you are the little girl again whom I am going to undress and put to bed. There, you are better now.”

“Old times? What, of misery and poverty and wretchedness, and having servants that you cannot pay, and struggling to keep up appearances, and all for what?”

“Oh, hush, hush, little May!” said Claire, holding her to her breast, and half sadly, half playfully, rocking herself to and fro.

“You don’t know what trouble is. You don’t know what it is to have your tenderest feelings torn. You never knew what it was to suffer as I have. I hate him.”

She could not see Claire’s ghastly face, nor the agonised twitching of the nerves about her lips which her sister was striving to master.

“No one knows what I have had to suffer,” she went on; “and it’s too hard – it’s too hard to bear. No one loves me, no one cares for me. It’s all misery and wretchedness, and – and I wish I was dead.”

“No, no, no, darling,” said Claire, as she drew the sobbing little thing closer to her breast; “don’t say that. I love you dearly, my own sister, and it breaks my heart to see you unhappy. But there, there, you are so weary and ill to-night that it makes everything look so black. I suffer too, darling, for your sake – for all our sakes, and now I will not scold you.”

“Scold me?” cried May, in affright.

“No, not one word; only pray to you to be careful of your dear, sweet little self. My darling, I am so proud of my beautiful little sister. You will not be frivolous again, and give me so much pain?”

“N-no,” sighed May, with her face buried in her sister’s breast.

“Frank – ”

“Don’t – don’t speak of him.”

“Yes, yes; he is your husband, and you must try to win him over to you by gentleness, instead of being a little angry tyrant.”

“Clairy!”

“Yes, but you can be,” said Claire playfully, as she pressed her lips upon the soft, flossy hair. “I can remember how these little hands used to beat at me, and the little tearful eyes flash anger at me in the old times.”

Just then Denville entered the room softly, with a weary, dissatisfied air; but, as he stood in the doorway unnoticed, his whole aspect changed, and the tears stood in his eyes.

“God bless them!” he said fervently; and then, as he saw May raise her head, and look excitedly in her sister’s face, he stepped forward.

“Well, little bird,” he said, bending down to kiss May’s forehead, “back once more in the old nest?”

Claire looked searchingly at him as she rose from her knees; and then she sighed as she saw May fling herself into her father’s arms.

“There, there, I shall make the head ache again,” he said, with a calm, restful smile upon his lips, such as Claire had not seen for months.

“How he loves her!” she thought; and then another idea flashed through her breast. Suppose May knew!

“Claire, my child, is her room ready?”

“Yes; Morton’s room is prepared in case he came back. She will sleep there unless – May, will you come to me?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the little girlish thing, in a quick excited way. “No, no; I’ll be alone. Let me go now – at once.”

Claire fetched and gave her a lighted candle, finding her clinging passionately to her father, looking, as it seemed to the thoughtful woman, like some frightened child.

She kissed him hastily, and seemed to snatch the candle from her sister’s hand.

“Good-night, Claire,” she cried, holding up her face, and clinging tightly to her sister’s arm.

“I am going with you, dear – as I used to in the old times,” said Claire, smiling; and they left the room together.

“Without one word to me,” said Denville, as he stood with clasped hands gazing at the door. “Well, why should I be surprised? What must I be in her sight? Her father! Yes, but a monster without pity – utterly vile.”

He heaved a piteous sigh, as he sank into a chair.

“No,” he said to himself, “I will not influence her in any way. I will not stir. It would be too cruel. But if – if she should lean towards him – who knows? – women have accepted the wealth and position such as he offers. No, I will not stir.”

He sighed again, walked to the drawing-room window to see that the bar was across the shutter; and, this done, he turned hastily and gazed back into the room that had been Lady Teigne’s chamber, and as he did so the dew stood upon his forehead, for he seemed to see the bed with its dragged curtains, the empty casket on the floor, and by it the knife that he had picked up and hidden in his breast.

Yes, there it all was, and Claire standing gazing at him with that horrified look of suspicion in her beautiful face, as the thought came which had placed an icy barrier between them ever since. Yes, there she was, staring at him so wildly, and it was like a horrible nightmare, and —

“Father – are you ill?”

“Claire! Is it you? No, no; nothing the matter. Tired; wearied out. So long and anxious an evening. Good-night!”

She had come in to find him staring back into that room in a half cataleptic state; and the sight of his ghastly face brought all back to her. For a few moments she could not move, but at last, by an effort, she spoke, and he seemed to be snatched back by her voice into life and action.

“Good-night, father,” she said, trembling as she read the agonies of a conscious-stricken soul in his countenance, and she was moving towards the door, when, with an agonised cry, he turned to her.

“Claire, my child, must it be always so?” he cried, as he clasped his hands towards her as if in prayer.

“Father!” she said, in a voice almost inaudible from emotion.

“Claire, my child,” he moaned, as he sank upon his knees before her: “you do not know the burden I have to bear.”

She did what she had not done for months, as she stood trembling before him; laid one hand upon his head, while her lips parted as if to speak, but they only quivered and no words came.

At last, with a sobbing cry, she flung herself upon his neck, and he clasped her in his arms.

“Not to me, father,” she sobbed, “not to me; I am not your judge.”

“No,” he said softly, as he reverently kissed her brow; “you are not my judge.”

His lips parted to speak again, but he shook his head, while a sad smile came into and brightened his countenance.

“The load is lighter, Claire,” he said softly. “No, you are not my judge. If you were you would not condemn me unheard, and I cannot – dare not speak.”

He led her towards the door, and stood watching her as she passed upstairs and out of sight, turning her face to him once before she closed the door.

“The sweet pure angel and good genius of my home,” he said softly, with bent head, and with a calmer, more restful look in his countenance he went slowly to his own room.

All was soon dark and silent in the house so lately busy with the noise and buzz of many guests. Five minutes had not elapsed when the door was softly pushed open, and a slight little figure entered, and crossed to the window.

The noise made was very slight, as the swinging bar across the shutters was lifted and lowered, one of the shutters folded back, the fastening raised, and the window pushed ajar.

The figure stood in the semi-darkness in the attitude of one listening, and then drew back with a peculiar sigh as of one drawing in breath.

A couple of minutes passed, and then there was a scraping, rustling noise outside, the semi-darkness was deepened by a figure in the balcony, the window was drawn outwards, and a man passed in, whispering:

“May – sweet – are you there?”

A faintly uttered sigh was the response, and quick as thought the French window was closed, a step or two taken into the silent drawing-room, and May Burnett was tightly clasped in the arms of the nocturnal intruder.

“My darling!”

“No, no. Now one word, and you must go,” she whispered quickly. “I have done as I promised; now keep your word – to stay only one minute – say one word and go.”

“And I will keep it,” he cried, “my beautiful little love, my – Damnation!”

May started from his arms, for at that moment there was a thundering knock at the front door, and a violent drag at the bell.

Volume Two – Chapter Sixteen.
For her Sister’s Sake

“Oh, go – go quickly,” cried May excitedly. “It is my husband come back; what shall I do?”

“Stop!” cried Sir Harry. “Listen!”

“No, no; they are knocking again. My father will hear.”

“But – ”

“No, no, you must not stay. Go,” she panted, and as she spoke, in her hurry and alarm, she pushed him towards the window.

“Confound it all!” he muttered, as he opened it softly. “Pray, pray be quick,” she cried. “Oh, do – do go.”

“Impossible!” he whispered back. “They would see. Hide me.”

“I can’t – I can’t.”

“You must. Somewhere here.”

“No, no! You must go. Oh, what shall I do? I am lost – undone.”

“Hush, little woman! Be calm,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know much about this house. Here, I will go downstairs.”

“But you cannot; the footman will see you.”

“Then, curse it all, hide me upstairs,” cried Sir Harry impatiently.

“My father – my sister – what shall I do! – Oh!”

That was all the visitor heard, and the faint cry that ended the sentence was drowned in a second tremendous peal at knocker and bell.

“Confound her! she’s gone. May! hist! – May! – Don’t leave me like this!”

He felt about for the door, but could not find it in his dread and confusion. Only one part of the room could he make out, and that was the window, by which flight was impossible without being seen.

“Little wretch!” he muttered. “What a fool I am! Where is the cursed door? There were three here somewhere. What the devil am I to do? Curse – ”

He kicked against a chair, and nearly knocked it over, and then stumbled against a couch.

“The door must be here somewhere,” he muttered. “Yes, there.”

It was plain enough where the door was now, for a light shone beneath it, and the sides looked light, showing its shape, just as another peal came from knocker and bell.

He had just time to drop down behind the sofa when the door opened, and the Master of the Ceremonies appeared in his long dressing-gown, candle in hand, crossed the drawing-room, and, opening the farther door, went through, and it swung to, leaving the intruder once more in darkness.

He started up again as he heard the rattle of locks and bolts below, and made for the window, meaning to escape by it as soon as those who had alarmed the house had entered.

“Curse him! Mellersh left to watch,” he muttered, as voices were heard from below – loud and angry voices – mingled with those of remonstrance.

“I tell you we saw a man climb up and enter by the balcony,” came up; and in his alarm and horror the intruder knocked over an ornament now, as he made for the door that led to the bedrooms – his last chance of escaping unseen.

“Ah, there she is,” he said beneath his breath, as the door was made visible once more by the rays of light all round.

“Come up, then, and I will search the place,” came from below.

“Don’t be alarmed: I’m going to see,” said a voice outside the door leading to the upper staircase; and the next moment the door opened, and Claire, in her white dressing-gown, entered candle in hand.

“Sir Harry Payne!” she cried, as the light fell on the figure of the visitor.

“Hush! For heaven’s sake, quick! Hide me somewhere. Quick! Before it is too late.”

He had caught her by the arm and laid one hand upon her lips; and as she was trying to release herself, the other door opened, and Denville entered, closely followed by Frank Burnett and Richard Linnell.

“Claire! Sir Harry Payne!” cried the Master of the Ceremonies.

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Burnett, with a grin. “No murder this time, except reputation. I had made up my mind to come and stop to-night, as my wife’s here; but, after this, the sooner she’s out of this place the better. Here, call her, some of you. Where’s her room?”

Claire did not speak, but stood there, as if turned to stone, her eyes fixed upon the cold, stern face of Richard Linnell, as he stood back by the door.

“Sir Harry Payne, speak, I insist,” cried Denville fiercely. “What does this mean?”

“Hush, sir! Hush! pray, gentlemen. A little bit of gallantry, nothing more.”

“Sir!” cried Denville.

“Hush, sir, pray!” cried Sir Harry, who was white and trembling with dread. “No noise – the neighbours – the scandal. Perfectly innocent, I assure you. An assignation. I came to see Miss Denville here.”

Claire turned her eyes slowly from Richard Linnell, whose look seemed to wither her, and fixed them on the despicable scoundrel, who was screening her sister before her husband, but who would not meet her stern gaze.

“I thought as much,” said Burnett, with a sneer. “I tell you what – ”

“Silence!” hissed a voice in his ear, and a broad, strong hand came down on his shoulder with a grip like a vice.

Claire saw it – the brave, true effort to defend her in her disgrace, and she lifted her eyes once more to Linnell’s. Then she let them close, and stood there silent, with the sweet little girlish innocent-looking face of her sister before her, as she stayed listening to the condemnation of husband and father – little May, her father’s darling – in her place. One word would save her, would clear her in the sight of the man who loved her, and of the father who stood sternly there; but she must condemn May to save herself, and she stood there as if convicted of the shameful act.

For she spoke no word, and her sister’s fame was saved.

Volume Two – Chapter Seventeen.
A Staunch Friend

“No, Miss Clode; I can be angry, and I can speak my own mind, but I’m not going to be so mean and shabby as to take my custom somewhere else, though it is so tempting; but what I say is this – don’t you never say a word to me again about that young lady, or I shall fly out.”

“I’m very sorry, ma’am, I’m sure, and you and Mr Barclay are such good customers, besides being my landlord and landlady.”

“Oh, there’s nothing in that, Miss Clode. You pay your rent to the day, and, as Mr Barclay says, it’s a business transaction.”

“Of course, it’s very painful to me, Mrs Barclay, and I shouldn’t have told you what I did, only you know you came and asked me what people were saying.”

“Well, so I did. Yes, you’re right, I did. But it isn’t true, Miss Clode. Miss Claire Denville is as good as gold, and people tell most horrible stories, and where you get to know so much I can’t think. But does everybody talk about it?”

“Yes, ma’am, everybody; and Mr and Mrs Burnett haven’t been there since.”

“I don’t care: I won’t believe it. And is it a fact that she goes regularly to Fisherman Miggles’s to see that little girl?”

“Yes, ma’am, regularly.”

“Then she has a good reason for it. There!”

“It’s a terrible blow for Mr Denville, of course, ma’am; and they say the young gentleman who has only just joined the dragoons is horribly put out, and challenged Sir Harry Payne, only the Colonel would not let them fight.”

“Dear – dear – dear! Poor Denville! he has nothing but misfortunes. I am sorry for him; I am indeed. Well, I must go; but mind this, Miss Clode: Claire Denville is a particular friend of mine, and no one shall say ill of her in my presence.”

There was a very strong resemblance to a ruffled hen, whose chickens had been looked at by a strange cat, in Mrs Barclay’s aspect as she left Miss Clode’s, while, at her aunt’s command, Annie, the bun-faced, moved a Berlin wool pattern on one side in the window so that she could command a view of the Parade from the bulging panes, and after watching there for a few minutes she said:

“She’s gone by, auntie.”

“Ah, with all her fuss, she daren’t keep up the acquaintance.”

“She has turned back and gone in, auntie.”

“Oh, very well, just as she likes; it is no business of mine.”

Annie, the innocent, was quite right, for Mrs Barclay had walked by the Denvilles’, and then stopped short, indignant with herself; turned back and given a good bold rap at the door, to which Isaac, who looked discontented and strange, replied, and said, before he was asked:

“Not at home.”

“Now don’t you talk nonsense to me, young man,” said Mrs Barclay, “because – ”

“My master and mistress are – not – at – ”

Isaac began to drag his works towards the last, for Mrs Barclay was rummaging in her reticule for a half-crown, but could only find a good old-fashioned crown, which she slipped into the footman’s hand.

To a man-servant who was beginning to look upon his arrears of wages as doubtful, a crown-piece was a coin not to be despised, and he took it and smiled.

“Mr Denville is out, I suppose, isn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I don’t want to see him, but just you go and ask Miss Claire to see me, and if she says no, you say I must see her. There!”

The result was that Mrs Barclay was shown into the drawing-room, where Claire rose to meet her with cold dignity, and pointed to a chair.

Instead of taking it, Mrs Barclay caught the girl in her arms, and gave her rapidly some half-dozen hearty kisses.

“There, my dear,” she said, “if every bit as I’ve heard was quite true, I should have come all the same; but as I don’t believe one single synnable of the pack o’ lies, I’ve come to see you. There!”

That there came like an expiration of the breath as she plumped herself down, and the next minute Claire was upon her knees, her arms round the wide waist, and her face buried in the extensive bosom, sobbing violently, and relieving herself in tears of the pressure that had been crushing her down ever since the troubles of that terrible night.

“That’s right, my darling: you cry – cry hard. A good cup o’ tea and a good cry’s the greatest blessings o’ Providence for us poor suffering women. No, no: you needn’t put a hankychy between. My Jo-si-ah never stints me in dresses, and you may spoil a dozen of ’em if that’ll do you any good.”

“Mrs Barclay – Mrs Barclay!”

“No, no, no: you’re going to take and try and explain and a lot more of it; but I won’t hear a word. I tell you I don’t believe nothing of what’s about. I said if Miss Claire Denville did this or that, she had good reason, being like the mother of that family, as even manages her poor father, so I don’t want to hear no lying scandal.”

“Heaven bless you!” sobbed Claire, kissing her.

“Ah, that’s nice,” said Mrs Barclay, smiling. “My little girl died, my dear, as would have been as old as you. Not like you, of course, but it seems as if she might have kissed me like that. I’m a very vulgar sort of woman, I know, my dear, well enough: and if I didn’t I soon should, with people sneering at me as they do. You ain’t sorry I came?”

“Sorry? I can never say how it has touched me.”

“I’m very glad of it, for I don’t want to know. And now, not another word about all that, for I know everything, and how all the people are cutting you and your poor pa. But never you mind, my dear. Lots of the people you knew were very fine-weather friends, such as run away as soon as a storm blows. You’ve got a clear conscience, so don’t you take on about it, but live it down.”

“I shall try to,” said Claire, with a smile – the first that had been seen on her face for days.

“It’s what I often say to my Jo-si-ah, though I haven’t got a clear conscience through Barclay’s money transactions, which ought to be on his, but as I keep his books, and know everything, they trouble me all the same. So everybody’s cutting you, eh?”

“Yes,” said Claire sadly.

“Then you cut them till they beg your pardon. And now, my dear, just one word from a simple plain woman, whose heart’s in the right place. If you want some one to confide in, or you want help of any kind, you know where Betsey Barclay lives, and that’s where there’s help, whether it’s a kind word, a cup o’ tea, or some one that you can put your arms round and cry upon, and whose purse is open to you, if you’ll excuse me for mentioning it.”

“Miss Dean, ma’am,” said Isaac, opening the door.

“Not at – ”

“Which I thought you were receiving, ma’am,” said Isaac in defence.

Mrs Barclay rose to go, but Claire laid a hand upon her arm, and she resumed her seat as Cora Dean entered, elaborately dressed, and exchanged a most formal courtesy as the visitor rose once more.

Cora could not have explained her visit, even to herself. She hated Claire: she loved her. She was triumphant over her fall: she was sorry for her. She was certain that she would no longer find in her a rival, and in spite of this, she felt a curious sensation of soreness of heart.

She who had for a couple of years past been slighted by the fashionable folk of Saltinville, while Claire had been received everywhere, felt in the new flush of the success she had won a kind of triumph over an unfortunate sister, who would now, she knew, be socially ostracised; and in the plenitude of her own wealth of position she had told herself that she could afford to go and call upon the fallen rival, and, under the guise of politeness, see for herself how she bore her trouble, and assume a consolatory rôle that she told herself she did not feel.

But Cora Dean, ill-educated and badly brought up, violent in her passions and quick to dislike a rival, had a very kindly woman’s heart within her breast; and as soon as she had formally saluted Mrs Barclay, and had seen the sad, grave face that met hers, ready to suffer insult if it were offered in the guise of friendship, a change came over her, the tender heart leaped, and in full remembrance of their last parting, she advanced quickly and kissed Claire warmly.

There was no disguising the tears in her eyes, and they were infectious, for Mrs Barclay, whose feathers had been rising fast and her tongue sharpening into a point, heaved a tremendous sigh as she jumped up and exclaimed:

“It’s very little I know of you, Miss Dean, and – I’m a plain woman – I never thought I should like you; but if you wouldn’t mind, my dear!”

It was a kiss of peace, and Mrs Barclay added another that was very loud and very warm.

“And her saying that she had no friends,” she exclaimed. “Pooh!”

Claire darted a grateful look at both, and then began to wince and shrink as Mrs Barclay, in all well-meaning, went on talking from one to the other with the most voluble of tongues.

“I declare,” she cried, “as I said to my Jo-si-ah, there’s no end to the nasty scandals talked in this miserable town.”

“Pray say no more, Mrs Barclay,” cried Claire; “I am so grateful to you both for coming here, but – ”

“I won’t say much, my dear, but I must tell Miss Dean, or I shan’t be able to bear myself. What we want here is a great high tide to come all over the place and wash it clean.”

“Why, we should be drowned, too, Mrs Barclay,” said Cora, laughing.

“I hope not, my dear, for I’m no lover of scandal; but do you know, they actually have had the impudence to say that my dear Claire here has been seen at her back door talking to a common soldier.”

Claire tried to control herself, but her eyes would stray to Cora Dean’s and rest there as if fascinated.

“When the reason is,” continued the visitor, as Claire was asking herself should she not boldly avow her connection, “the reason is that she has been seen talking to her brother, who is not a common soldier, but an officer. What do you think of that?”

Cora turned to her, smiled, and said:

“I can believe in the Saltinville people saying anything ill-natured for the sake of petty gossip. We had much to contend against when we came.”

“Of course, you had, my dear. Look at me, too: just because my poor Jo-si-ah does money business with some of the spendthrifts, and, of course, lets ’em pay for it, I’m made out to be the most greedy, miserly, wicked, drinking woman that ever breathed. I’m bad enough, I dare say, and between ourselves I do like a glass of hot port wine negus with plenty of nutmeg; but I am not so bad as they say, am I, my dear?”

“You are one of the truest-hearted women I know,” said Claire, taking her hand.

“There’s a character for me, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, turning to Cora and nodding her head and laughing. “Ah, I must tell you that too,” she cried as the recollection came, “just because – ”

“Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, rising, “pray spare me. I am not well; I have not been well lately, and – and – I know you will forgive me.”

“Forgive you, my dear?” cried Mrs Barclay. “Why, of course. It’s horribly thoughtless of me. There, good-bye. Are you coming, Miss Dean?”

Cora rose, feeling that she could not stay longer, and after a warm leave-taking, during which the two younger women mentally asked themselves whether they were friends or bitter enemies, Claire’s visitors withdrew and walked together along the parade.

The slightest touch set Mrs Barclay’s tongue going, and before they had gone far Cora was in full possession of the newly-retailed story about Claire’s visits to the fishermen’s huts.

“And do you believe this of her?” said Cora, with an eagerness that she could not conceal.

“Now, we’re just become friendly, my dear, and I should be sorry to say anything nasty, but I ask you do I look as if I believed it?”

“You look as if you were Claire Denville’s best friend,” said Cora diplomatically.

“And so I am,” replied Mrs Barclay proudly. “I can’t help people talking scandal. They glory in it. And, look here, my dear, it isn’t far from here, and if you don’t mind, we’ll go along the cliff to the very house and call.”

“Call!” said Cora in amaze.

“Yes; it’s at a fisherman’s, you know – Fisherman Dick’s – and we can get a pint or two of s’rimps for tea.”

The consequence was that Cora did walk along the cliff to Fisherman Dick’s cottage, and when Mrs Barclay reached her house an hour later her reticule bag was bulging so that the strings could not be drawn close, and the reason why was – shrimps.

On the other hand, Cora Dean had not filled her reticule with shrimps, but her mind with unpleasant little thoughts that made it bulge. Curious thoughts they were, too, and, like Mrs Barclay’s shrimps, all jumbled together, heads and tails, ups and downs. She felt then that she could not arrange them, but that there was a great sensation of triumph in her breast, and what she wanted to do most was to sit down and think – no easy task, for her brain was in a whirl.

Volume Two – Chapter Eighteen.
A Stormy Scene

“I’ve never dared to write to you before, Clairy. Frank watches me so; but, though I don’t come, I think lots about you, and I shall never forget what a dear, good thing you were that night. Good-bye. We must be separate for a bit, till that bother’s all forgotten, but don’t you fidget; I’m going to be so good now.”

Claire was reading the note that had come to her, she knew not how, for the second time, wondering how a woman – her sister – could be so utterly heartless; and, after leaving her to bear the brunt of Sir Harry Payne’s shameless accusation, treat it all as such a mere trifle.

Claire held the letter in her hand, with her spirits very low, and a bitter, despairing look was in her eyes as she sat gazing before her, thinking that no greater trouble could come to her now.

Richard Linnell had just passed the house, and though ever since the night of the “At Home,” she had shrunk away and rigidly kept from noticing him, the one pleasure she had longed for was to see the grave, wistful look he was in the habit of directing at the window. Now, he had gone by without raising his eyes.

It was the most cruel pang of all. He might have had faith in her, even if she had rejected his suit, and told him that it was hopeless in the extreme.

Her cheeks burned as she thought of Cora Dean with her Juno-like face and her manifest liking for Richard Linnell.

“What is it to me?” she said to herself; and her tears fell fast upon the letter she held in her hand, and she did not hear her father enter the drawing-room, nor see him glance quickly from her in the flesh to the sweetly innocent face of his favourite child, smiling down upon him from the young Italian artist’s canvas.

Then he caught sight of the letter, and saw that she was weeping.

An angry flash came into his eyes; the mincing dandyism gave place to a sharp angular rigidity, and stepping quickly across the intervening space that separated him from his child, he was about to take the note from her hands.

Claire uttered a faint cry of alarm, started from the sofa, and hastily thrust the folded paper into her pocket.

“That letter,” he said, stamping his foot, “give me that letter.”

“No, no, I cannot, father,” she cried, with a look of terror at his worn and excited face.

“I insist,” he cried. “I will not allow these clandestine correspondences to be carried on. Give me the letter.”

“Father, I cannot,” she said firmly.

“Am I to take it from you by force?” he cried. “Am I, a gentleman who has struggled all these years to make himself the model from which society is to take its stand, who has striven so hard for his children, to be disgraced by you?”

No answer.

“Heaven knows how I have struggled, and it seems that two of my children must have been born with some base blood in their veins, and to be for ever my disgrace.”

Claire raised her eyes to his full of pitying wonder.

“See how your – no, God help me!” he cried wildly, “I dare not utter his name. See how you have disgraced your married sister – lowered me in the eyes of society. I am almost ruined, and just at a time when I had succeeded in placing your brother well. And now, see here – see here!”

He tore a note from his breast, and held it out rustling in his trembling hand.

“Here – I will not punish you more by reading it aloud,” he said; “but it is from my own son.”

“From Fred?”

“Silence, woman!” cried Denville, with a wild look of agony in his eyes, and a ghastly pallor taking the place of the two feverish spots that had stood in his cheeks. “I have no such son. He is an outcast. I forbid you to mention his name again.”

He stood quivering with a curious passion, his lips moving, his eyes staring wildly, and he beat one hand with the open letter he held in the other.

“Here!” he exclaimed at last, “from Morton – to say that, under the circumstances, he feels bound – for the sake of his own dignity and position in his regiment, to hold aloof from his home. The regiment will soon change quarters, and in time all this, he hopes, will be forgotten. Till then, all is to be at an end between us. This – from my own son.”

He began to pace the room nervously, thrusting back the letter; and then he turned upon Claire again.

“Not content, you still go on. Clandestine correspondence. Let me see who wrote that.”

“I cannot, father.”

“But I insist. Here, just when I had had your hand asked in marriage by one who is wealthy and noble, you disgrace us all by that shameless meeting. Give me the letter, I say.”

In his rage he caught her by the arms, and she struggled with him and fell upon her knees at his feet.

“Am I to use force?” he cried.

“For your own sake, no. Father, the letter is not what you think. For your own peace of mind, let it stay.”

His hands dropped to his sides at his daughter’s wild appeal, and the convulsed angry look once more gave place to the one of dread, as he drew back a step.

“Tell me,” he cried, still hesitating, “is it from that libertine, Sir Harry Payne?”

“No, no!”

“From Rockley?”

“No, father. How can you think me so degraded – so low!”

“Then – then – ”

“Father, for pity’s sake!” she cried, as she crept to his knees and embraced them. “Can you not see how I am willing to bear everything to save you pain? Has there not been agony and suffering enough in this house? You cannot think – you cannot believe. Is it not better that we should let this rest?”

He raised his trembling hands to his lips in a nervous, excited way, looking searchingly and furtively by turns in his child’s piteous face. The rage in his own had died out, to give place to the look of terror; and, as Claire clung to him, he now and again glanced at the door, as if he would flee from her presence.

“No, no,” he said at last. “I was wrong. I will not see the letter. You have your secrets: I have mine. Claire, my child, there is a veil, drawn down by you, over that night’s work. I dare not lift it, I dare not look.”

“Once more, father,” she said, “had we not better let it rest? I am content; I make no murmur against my fate.”

“No,” he said, flashing out again into anger; “but – hush! – stop! – I must not,” he whispered hoarsely. “These strange fits. I cannot bear them.”

He threw back and shook his head excitedly.

“I should go mad – I should go mad.”

“Father!”

“There, I am calm again, my child. I am not myself sometimes. There – there – it is past.”

He bent over and raised her to his breast, where she laid her head, uttering a piteous sigh.

“Stricken,” he whispered; “stricken, my child. The workings of a terrible fate. Don’t reproach – don’t think ill of me, Claire. Some day the light may come – no, no,” he cried wildly; “better the darkness. I am so weak – so torn by the agony I have endured. So weak, so pitiful a man; but, with all this wretched vanity and struggle for place, my miserable heart has been so full of love for you all – for my little May.”

Claire shivered.

“No, no,” he cried excitedly. “Claire, my child, don’t speak. Hush! listen, my child. There have been cases where, in self-abnegation – the sins of others – have been borne – by the innocent – the innocent! Oh, my child, my child!”

His head dropped upon his daughter’s shoulder, and he burst into a fit of sobbing, the outpourings of a flood of anguish that he fought vainly to restrain.

“Father, dear father!” she whispered, as her arms tightened around him.

“Claire, my child – my child!”

“Yes,” she said, as she seemed to be growing stronger and more firm; “your child – not your judge. Father, I see my duty clearly now. Your help and comfort to the end.”

Volume Two – Chapter Nineteen.
Peace and Sympathy

“And I thought that there would be no more rest and comfort here, my child. Claire, one night – ”

“No, no, dearest,” she cried, as she laid her soft white hand upon his lips; “the past cannot be recalled.”

“Only this little revelation,” he said, as he kissed the soft hand and held it to his cheek, “then the past shall be as dead with us. One night – since that night – I said to myself that I could bear no more, and I locked myself in my room; but something seemed to stay my hand – a something seemed to bid me live on, even in my pitiful, degraded state; and always – I cannot tell you how – your face seemed to be before my eyes. I tried to put it from me, but it was there. I fought against it, for I was enraged with you one minute, trembling with dread of what I dare not see the next; but still your face seemed to be there, my child, and I said at last that I would live it down or face it, if the dread time that haunts me always, as if lying in my path, should at last leap out.”

“Father!”

“My child! There, there; we do not know how much we can bear until the burden is laid upon us; and now let us cleave together like soldiers in the battle of life. Claire, child, we must live.”

She sat holding his hand in hers, with her brow knit, and a far-off look in her eyes.

“I am so old and broken,” he said musingly; “so helpless. For so many years my miserable energies have been bent solely to this pitiful life, or I would say let us leave here at once, and go where we are not known, to live in some simple fashion; but – I know nothing. I cannot work.”

“But I can, father,” she said, with a look of elation in her eyes. “I am young and strong, and I will work for you as you have worked for me. Let us go.”

“Where, my child?” he said, as he kissed her hand tenderly. “What work would you do – you, so beautiful, so unfit for the rough toil of life?”

“As a teacher – a governess,” she cried; but he shook his head, and began to tremble and draw her closer to him.

“No, no,” he said excitedly; “that would mean separation; and Claire,” he whispered, “I am so weak – so broken – that I must have your young spirit to sustain me. I cannot live without you. Left alone – no, no, no, I dare not be left alone.”

“Hush, dear!” she said, laying her cheek upon his shoulder, and drawing him to her breast, to soothe the agony of dread from which he suffered. “I will not leave you, then, father, I will be your help and stay. Nothing shall separate us now.”

“No, no.” He whispered the words. “I could not live without you, Claire, and I dare not die. My miserable, useless life may prove useful yet. Yes, my child, I feel it – I know it. My work is not yet done. Claire, my course is marked out for me; we must stay here till then.”

“Till then, father?”

“Yes; and live it down. Yes, I am wanted here. You will help me?”

“Father, I am your child.”

“Yes, yes,” he cried, resuming his old flippant air so suddenly that Claire, who did not realise the reaction that had set in, gazed at him tremblingly. “I shall live it down as of old. We must begin again, my dear, and those miserable, brainless butterflies will soon forget, and come to me for my help and introductions. We must not leave here, and the old fees will come once more.”

Claire sighed.

“Yes, child, it would have been a happier life to have gone; but it is braver to stay. Let your sweet face show in its dignity how lightly you treat all slander and scandal. Some day, after all, you shall marry well.”

She did not reply, and he went on excitedly:

“Now let me see what friends we have left. The Barclays stand firm as rocks. Those Deans, too – so vulgar, but quite as friendly as before. Mrs Pontardent.”

“Mrs Pontardent, father?”

“Yes, my dear, yes. Among so few, we must not be choosers. Remember old Hobson, you know. I know nothing against her but her tables. They gamble high; but where do they not? She has arranged for an evening, and I have promised her to go and take the management, and help her to receive her visitors – and – er – and – ”

“She has asked you to bring me?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I could read it in your eyes, father,” said Claire. “Oh, it is impossible.”

“I will not press you, my child; but it is almost life to me, and it would be giving us a stepping-stone to recover our lost ground.”

“Do you wish me to go, father?”

“If – if – you would not mind very much, my dear,” he said hesitatingly. “It would be helping me.”

He kissed her hand and left her to her own thoughts. The tears flowed for a while, and then, with a sigh, Claire rose with a look of resignation on her countenance, as if she accepted her fate.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty.
Private Instructions

“Look here, Bell,” said Major Rockley, as he stood in his quarters, with his regimental servant before him; “you were drunk again last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you are not ashamed of it?”

“Yes, sir, very much ashamed of it. It’s my weakness, sir.”

“Weakness, you scoundrel? It’s your blackguardly conduct. You have been under arrest so many times for this disgraceful behaviour, and I have such a black list against you, that if I lay it before Colonel Lascelles he will have you flogged.”

“But you won’t do that, sir.”

“Yes, I will, you scoundrel. No: I’ll give you another chance.”

“Thank you, sir; I was sure you would,” said the young man, flushing slightly, and with a strange look in his face.

“By the way, what time did Mr Denville come back to his quarters?”

“Two o’clock, sir.”

“With whom had he been?”

“Sir Matthew Bray, sir. Lady Drelincourt’s, I think.”

“Humph! Now, look here; can I trust you, Bell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’m going to give you a delicate bit of business to do for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you do it well, I shall give you a clean slate to begin again, and wipe off that last report.”

“Thankye, sir.”

“I cannot – at least I do not wish to – be seen in the business preparations, so I trust to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go directly then, to Moggridge’s, and arrange for a post-chaise and four to be at Prince’s Road to-night at – say eleven – no; half-past ten.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pick good fast horses. Pack a light valise with a change; put my pistols in the pockets of the carriage, and you will be there ready to see me off. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s – well, to be plain with you – a lady in the case.”

“I see, sir.”

“And, mind this; after we have started, you stay behind, and if there is any inquiry directly after, you volunteer information, and say we have taken the London Road. You understand?”

“Quite, sir.”

“There’s a sovereign for you. No: you’ll get drunk if I give it you now. I’ll give you five when I come back.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And mind, if I am wanted, I am unwell in bed. I want a good start.”

“I see, sir. You may depend on me. But what house, sir, in Prince’s Road?”

“You’ll see, blockhead. The one that is lighted up. Mrs Pontardent’s.”

Major Rockley’s regimental servant saluted, turned upon his heel, and went out muttering “Scoundrel!” between his teeth. “I wonder who the lady is?”

“I wouldn’t change places with you, my fine fellow,” he muttered, as he went across the parade ground; and, turning a corner, he came suddenly upon Sir Harry Payne, Sir Matthew Bray, and the new cornet, who flushed scarlet, as he saw the dragoon.

James Bell saluted, and was passing, but Sir Harry Payne stopped him, and Cornet Denville said hastily:

“I’ve left my cigar-case. Join you directly.”

He went away quickly, and Sir Harry Payne said:

“Where are you going, Bell?”

“Major’s washerwoman, sir,” said the dragoon promptly.

“Then you can call at River’s for me. Half a dozen pairs of white kid gloves. He knows my size. Shall he get you some, Matt?”

“No; not going.”

“Isn’t she going?”

“No.”

“Never mind; you’d better come. Denville’s pretty sister will be there.”

“Phew! Will she?” said Sir Matthew, whistling. “I say, mind what you’re about. There may be a row.”

“Not there. I shan’t notice her; and if I did, Denville’s all right. We’re the best of friends now.”

“But are you sure she’s coming?”

“Pontardent told me herself. She came round the old man.”

“Then I will come. Order me some gloves, Harry. I’ve no change.”

“You never do have any. Here! Tell them to send half a dozen pairs for Sir Matthew, and put them down to me. What’s the matter with your lip?”

“My lip, sir?”

“Yes; it’s bleeding.”

“Cracked, sir.”

“Yes: fevered. Drink too much. That will do. Nines, or tens – the gloves?”

“No, no: eights,” cried Sir Matthew; and the dragoon went on out of the barrack gates, with his face growing grey.

“This is being a soldier,” he muttered. “The scoundrel! If I thrash him till he can’t move, they’ll shoot me. But no, it can’t be. She’s too good a girl. Impossible. Besides, I shall be there.”

He went straight to the livery-stable keeper, and arranged for the best four horses he had, and gave the man a hint.

“Very private, you know.”

“Right, my lad. I know what the Major is. Here’s half-a-crown for you to get a glass.”

“Thank ye.”

James Bell pocketed the coin, and went off back to pack his master’s valise, and load the case of pistols ready to take to the chaise in the evening, after which he went to have one half-pint of ale, for he was suffering from a severe sensation of thirst, one that he often felt come on.

“Just one glass,” he said. “That’s all.”

James Bell partook of his one glass, but it was not all. Then he went back to see to the horses in his charge in a stable near the barracks – two belonging to the Major, and one of the Colonel’s.

The helper was there, and as the extra work would fall to his share that night, there was an excuse for giving him a glass of ale, of which he partook, nothing loth.

The message of Sir Harry Payne had been given, the clothes were packed up, the pistols ready. Yes, every thing had been done; and at last, when it was getting dark, James Bell, looking very stern and determined, and with a tendency to walk extremely straight, as if he were aiming at something right ahead, went off to Moggridge’s, placed the packed valise under the seat of the post-chaise, the pistols in the pockets, and then had a chat with the postboys, and – a glass of ale.

There was an hour yet to the time, so he strolled to the end of the yard, and thought he would just go as far as the stables to see if the helper had properly bedded down the horses; and this proving to be the case, and a shilling still remaining unspent of that half-crown, the dragoon suggested that a pot of the best ale should be fetched, and that they should drink it before he went.

The helper was worthy of his title, and fetched the ale, and then, one seated on a truss of straw, the other upon the corn-bin, the two men finished the ale between them, and just at the time that James Bell should have been at Mrs Pontardent’s gate, he was fast asleep in the stable.

That afternoon Mr Barclay was busy with his partner, when a visitor was announced, and as it was probably a call relating to money matters, Mrs Barclay left the room.

“Oh, it’s you, Moggridge,” said Barclay gruffly. “You don’t want money, I’m sure.”

“Thank ye, no, Mr Barclay, sir,” said the visitor, a closely shaven, sharp-faced man, with bow legs. “Things is moving, sir. I’m doing tidy;” and he went on chewing a piece of clover hay, which he had between his lips.

“What do you want then?”

“Well, you know what you said, sir, after the Hon. Tom Badgley went off that night, and dodged the sheriff’s officers; and you know what I promised you.”

“Who’s going now?”

“Major Rockley, sir.”

“The deuce! Alone?”

“No, sir. I think there’s a lady in the case.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know, sir. Take up at Mrs Pontardent’s party; half arter ten.”

“Thank ye, Moggridge. What’ll you take?”

“Well, sir, champagne’s a thing as don’t often come in my way, and – ”

“Come along,” said Barclay, and Mr Moggridge’s desires were satisfied.

“Not a bolt!” said Barclay to himself. “Who’s the woman? Well, I don’t want him to go. If he goes off he won’t meet my bill. He must be stopped, but how?”

He stood thinking for a few minutes, and then sat down and wrote a letter which he took out, and picking a boy from the idlers on the cliff, sent it to its destination.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty One.
A Walk and a Drive

Richard Linnell found a good deal of relief in his restless state of mind in taking long country walks, telling himself that he got away from his thoughts; but, on the contrary, he thought the more, and enjoyed his misery as some young men do whose love affairs go crooked.

He was about nine miles away from Saltinville on the day of Mrs Pontardent’s party, and rapidly increasing the distance, when he suddenly became aware of the sound of wheels behind in the road, and looking round as he gave place to the driver, he found that Cora Dean was checking her ponies.

“Confound her! she has followed me,” he said to himself, as she drew up by his side, quite alone, for the little seat generally occupied by the boy-groom was turned over and closed.

“This is unexpected, Mr Linnell,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. “I thought you were at home.”

“I felt sure you were,” he said, smiling.

“Why?”

The question was accompanied by a half resentful, half tender look, the first intended, the latter not.

“I expected that you would be busy with hair-dressers and dressmakers, preparing for to-night’s battle.”

“To-night’s battle?”

“Yes,” he said, in a bantering, reckless way that was new to him, “the battle with the beaux whom you are going to slay.”

He felt as if he could have bitten his tongue off the next moment, as he saw the look of pain she gave him.

“What have I done?” she said in a soft, low, half-passionate tone.

“Done! What do you mean?”

“Why do you take pleasure in laughing at me and mocking me?”

“Oh, nonsense!” he cried. “I was only speaking lightly.”

“Why should you speak lightly to me?” she said. “We have lived in the same house now for over a year, and, instead of being neighbours and friends, there always seems to be a great gap between us.”

“Why, what a sentimental view you take of things,” he said. “We shake hands when we meet. We smile at one another, and nod and chat.”

“Yes,” she said sadly, “we shake hands, we smile at each other, we nod and chat, but – ”

She stopped and seemed to try and command herself; and, to his great relief, she spoke lightly as she said:

“I shall see you to-night, of course?”

“No; I thought you were going to a party.”

“Yes, but you will be there?”

“No,” he said gravely; “I am not going.”

“Not going!” she cried. “Why, you were asked.”

“How do you know?”

She turned crimson, and avoided his searching look.

“Did Mrs Pontardent tell you?”

“Yes, and you will go?”

“No,” he said; “I declined. Why was I asked – do you know?”

She darted an appealing look at him; and the haughty, self-assertive woman seemed to be completely changed.

“Don’t – don’t be angry with me,” she said. “I – I thought it would be so pleasant if you were going to be there.”

“You never asked that woman to invite me, Miss Dean?”

She did not speak, but her face began to work, her hands dropped in her lap, her head drooped upon her chest, and she wept bitterly.

“Oh, Miss Dean, for heaven’s sake don’t do that,” he said. “I hate to see a woman cry. I can’t bear it. Pray forgive me if I spoke harshly. I could not help feeling annoyed that you should have done this.”

“You ought to be grateful,” she cried passionately. “The woman you love so dearly will be there with gay Major Rockley – oh, Mr Linnell – Richard – for heaven’s sake forgive me. What have I said – what have I done?”

In her alarm at the start he gave, and at his ghastly face, she let fall the reins and caught at his arm, when the ponies, feeling their heads free, dashed off; but this brought Linnell back to the present, and with one bound he reached the rein, hung on to it, and was dragged along for a few yards, turning the ponies’ heads towards a steep bank by the side of the narrow unfrequented road. The result would have been that he would have been crushed between the chaise and the bank, but for Cora’s presence of mind in seizing the other rein and dragging at it with all her might.

As it was, he received a violent kick which turned him sick and faint, and when he came to, the ponies’ reins were secured to a tree in the hedge, and he was lying upon the grass, with Cora’s arm supporting his head, and her frightened face bending over him.

“What is it?” he cried sharply. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said softly. “Don’t move. How brave you are!”

He looked at her wonderingly, and then flushing once more, he recalled the whole scene, and what led to it.

“I was afraid you were hurt,” he said, trying to rise; but the giddy feeling came back, and he sank down again.

“You are hurt,” she cried. “What shall I do? Richard – dear Richard! He’s dying. Oh, my love – my love!”

“Hush!” he cried huskily, as she was raising his head in her arms; “for God’s sake don’t speak to me like that. There – there – you see I am better. The pony kicked me. It made my head swim. There,” he cried, rising to his knees, “you see it is all right. I quite frightened you.”

He stood up now and offered her his hand to rise; but she did not take it, for she covered her face with her hands and crouched lower and lower on her knees, sobbing wildly in a passion of grief, for his words had been as cold and distant as if they had been strangers.

“Miss Dean – Miss Dean – pray let me help you to your carriage,” he said; but she shrank from him.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried bitterly; “you made me love you – you made me disgrace myself like this, and now I am to be your laughing-stock and scorn.” She looked up at him with her eyes full of rage, which died out on the instant as she cried to him wildly, “I wish you had let me drown!”

He stood looking at her for a few moments, and then glanced along the winding lane; but they were quite alone. Then, taking her hand, he made her rise, for she submitted to his will without a trace of resistance.

“I am very sorry,” he said at last simply.

“Sorry!” she cried angrily. “Oh, why am I such a mad fool? Why did I betray myself like this?”

“Hush!” he said softly, as he held her hand between both of his; “listen to me. Do you think I have not seen for long enough that you are beautiful, and that – ”

“How dare you?” she cried fiercely. “It is not true.”

“You must hear me,” he said; “and forgive my awkwardness for speaking as I do. You know my story so well: have I not always been steadfast to that love?”

She sobbed violently and tried to snatch away her hand, but he held it firmly.

“I have always tried to be to you as a friend. Heaven knows I would not have wounded you like this.”

“Yes,” she sobbed bitterly, “Heaven knows.”

“Why did you stab me with those cruel words?” he cried resentfully.

“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I was mad. It makes me mad to see you go on worshipping her as you do. Does she make you love and hate her too, as she does me?”

“Hush – hush!” he said quickly. “I want to like and respect you, Cora Dean.”

“Like! Respect!” she cried, with a flash of her former rage. “Why have I degraded myself like this?”

“Do you not trust me?” he said gently, as he looked in her eyes. “Do you think I should be such a despicable coward as ever to whisper word of this to a soul? Come,” he said, with a frank smile, “we have both been unfortunate. Let us be friends.”

“Friends?” she cried. “No; a woman never forgives a slight like this. Do you think I could?”

“Yes,” he said, after a few moments’ pause. “You hate me, and are bitter against me now; but when you have grown calm you will respect me, I am sure. Cora,” he cried, with an outburst as excited as her own, “there is no such thing as love or truth on earth. I – Bah! What am I saying?” he cried, checking himself. “Come, we are friends. Let me help you to your place again.”

He offered his hand once more, but she struck it aside, and went to the ponies’ heads while he tried to forestall her, but had to catch at the side of the chaise to save himself a fall.

Her anger was gone on the instant as she saw his face contract with pain, and in a moment she was by his side.

“It is my turn to triumph,” she said in a deep, low tone. “Richard Linnell, you must trust to the woman you despise I shall have to drive you home.”

He tried to master the pain, but he could not; and, with a deprecating smile, he had to confess his weakness, and accept a seat back to Saltinville, for it was impossible to walk.

It was a triumph, Cora Dean saw, as she sat up proud and stately beside him; and she felt her heart glow as they reached the town, and scores of promenaders noted him seated by her side; but it was not a pleasant drive home, all the same.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Two.
Linnell Changes his Mind

“Getting cured then, Dick?” said Colonel Mellersh grimly, as Richard limped into the room after finding a note in his own place, which his father said had been brought by a boy.

“Cured? Look, I am quite lame. One of Miss Dean’s ponies kicked me; but it will only be a bruise.”

“Humph! How convenient!” said the Colonel, with a grim look.

“Don’t laugh at me,” said Linnell quickly. “I could not help myself.”

“That’s what we all say when we fall victims to fascination.”

“Mellersh, pray stop this banter. You refused Mrs Pontardent’s invitation for yourself and me?”

“I did.”

“I want you to ask her pardon, and get the invitations for us. I must get there to-night.”

“Because Miss Cora Dean, your beautiful charioteer, will be there?”

“No!” fiercely.

“Why, then, most impressionable youth?”

“Because – must I tell you?”

“Yes, if you wish me to act,” said the Colonel sternly.

“Because Claire Denville will be there.”

“Good heavens! that old fop is never going to take that girl?”

“He is.”

“Pooh! What am I saying?” cried the Colonel, half laughingly. “Well, what of it? Why do you want to go?”

“Look.”

Linnell held out the note he had found in his room, and Mellersh read it.

“Rockley – post-horses – for the London Road. Who sent this, Dick?”

“I don’t know.”

“It may be a trick.”

“Who would trick me like that? And what for?”

Mellersh remained silent for a few minutes, and then he said gravely:

“Well, Dick, suppose it is so. Surely you are going to awake from this madness now?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does this letter mean? It is plain enough. Constant sapping has carried the fortress, and the lady has consented.”

“Don’t talk like that, Mellersh. For heaven’s sake, don’t take that cynical tone.”

“Why not, madman? I have heard tell that women often say no when they mean yes. A lady we know must have meant yes. Hang it, boy, what more proof do you want that the woman is unworthy of your love?”

“None,” said Linnell bitterly; “none, but I love her all the same.”

“Nonsense! Be a man.”

“I am a man,” cried Linnell furiously, “too much of a man to see the woman I love suffer for her weakness when I can stretch out a hand to save her. That hand I can stretch out, and I will. Now, will you help me?”

“To the death, Dick. I abhor your folly, but there is so much true chivalry in it that I’ll help you with all my heart.”

“I knew you would,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Write at once and get the invitations.”

“Pish!” said Mellersh contemptuously. “Don’t trouble yourself, my boy. I have only to walk in at Madame Pontardent’s door with any friend I like to take. Ah, I wonder how many hundred pounds I have won in that house!”

Linnell was walking up and down the room when the strains of music heard across the hall ceased; and directly after old Mr Linnell’s pleasant, grave head was thrust into the room.

“Another letter for you, Dick, my son. Just come.”

He held it out, nodded to both, and went back to his room, when the violin was heard again.

“Strange hand,” said Richard, opening it quickly.

“Good God!”

“What’s the matter?” cried Richard, as he heard his friend’s exclamation – saw his start.

“What has Miss Clode to say to you?” said Mellersh huskily.

“Miss Clode? This is not from Miss Clode. Look – no, I cannot show you,” cried Richard excitedly. “Yes, I will; I keep nothing from you.”

Mellersh glanced at the note which had been delivered by hand. It was anonymous, and only contained these words:

“If Mr Richard Linnell wishes for further proof of the unworthiness of a certain lady, let him visit Mrs Pontardent’s to-night.”

“That cannot be from Miss Clode,” said Richard, as he saw his friend’s face resume its cynical calm.

“Possibly not. Of course not. Why should she write to you? Well, Dick, we’ll go and see the affair to-night; but what do you mean to do?”

“Act according to circumstances. At any rate stop this wretched business.”

“Good,” said Mellersh. “I’m with you, Dick; but if it comes to a meeting this time, let me take the initiative. I should like to stand in front of Rockley some morning. The man irritates me, and I am in his debt.”

“What, money?”

“No; I want to pay back a few insults thrown at me over the tables now and then.”

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Three.
An Exacting Guest

Mrs Pontardent was a lady of a class who prospered well in the days when George the Third was king, and fashionable men considered it the correct thing to ruin themselves at cards wherever the tables were opened for the purpose. If you go to an auction sale now, in out-of-the-way places, there are sure to be card-tables in the catalogue; but if you furnish newly, your eyes rarely light upon green baize-lined tables exhibited for sale.

There were several at Mrs Pontardent’s handsomely-furnished detached house in Prince’s Road, where it stood back in fairly extensive grounds. In fact, it was, after Lord Carboro’s, one of the best houses close to Saltinville.

There were plenty of carriages waiting about in the road that night – so many along by the garden wall that Major Rockley found it necessary to alter his plans, for a post-chaise and four was likely to attract attention, and its postboys might be the objects of a good deal of ribald jest if they were close up with the servants of the private carriages.

To meet this difficulty, not being able to find his servant, he went round himself to the livery-stables, feed the postboys, and gave them instructions to wait in the back lane close by the door in the wall at the north side of the garden.

That door was only unlocked when the gardener was receiving fresh soil, plants or pots, or found it necessary to go out for a quiet refresher in the heat of the day; but after an interview and the offer of a golden key, the gardener thought it possible that the door might be left open that night.

Mrs Pontardent lived in style, and her rooms deserved the title of saloons, draped as they were with amber satin, and bright with wax candles, whose light was reflected from many girandoles.

The drawing-room windows opened on to a well-kept lawn; there were bosky walks; a terrace from which the glittering sea was visible; and in the saloons and about the garden a large and brilliant company was assembled.

The Barclays were there, for Barclay was everybody’s banker, and a necessity. The Deans arrived early, and Cora looked handsomer than ever. In fact, the officers of the dragoon regiment, as they saw her go up and speak to Claire, declared that they were the most perfect blonde and brunette that the world had ever seen. But then Mrs Pontardent’s wines were excellent, and it was acknowledged that it was a guest’s own fault if he did not have enough.

Tea, coffee, ices, and sandwiches at various buffets were spread as a matter of course, but the servants who waited there had a light time compared with that of the butler and his aid.

The Master of the Ceremonies had arrived early with his daughter, whom Mrs Pontardent kissed affectionately, and called “My dear child,” and then her father was obliged to leave her, as he had so many duties to perform, receiving guests and introducing them to the hostess as if it were a royal ball; getting couples ready for the dances that went on to the strains of a string band in a very languid way, and finding places for elderly ladies at the card-tables, as opportunity served.

As soon as she could, Claire found a refuge by the side of Mrs Barclay; but her hand was much sought after by dancers brought up from time to time by her father, and every time she trembled lest one of those present should offer himself as a partner.

But, though Major Rockley was there, and had spoken to her gravely once, and bowed on two other occasions as he passed her, he had made no other advance; and when Richard Linnell arrived he did not attempt to speak, but passed her arm-in-arm with Colonel Mellersh, bowing coldly, and giving her one stern, severe look that made her draw her breath once with a catch, and then feel a glow of resentment.

Cora came and sat down once by her side, to be by turns loving and spiteful, as if her temper was not under command; but they were soon separated, for Cora’s hand was also much sought after for the various dances.

The evening was less trying than Claire had anticipated. She had come prepared to meet with several slights from the ladies present, but, somehow, the only one who openly treated her with discourtesy was Lady Drelincourt, who gave her the cut direct in a most offensive way, as she passed on Morton Denville’s arm.

That was the unkindest act of all, for the boy had seen her, and was about to nod and smile, forgetful in the elation produced by several glasses of wine, of the cause of offence between them; but, taking his cue from the lady on his arm, he drew himself up stiffly and passed on.

The tears rose to Claire’s eyes, but she mastered her emotion, as she saw Major Rockley on the other side of the room, keenly observant of all that had passed; and to hide her grief she went on talking to the gentleman who had just solicited her hand for the next dance.

Richard Linnell passed her soon afterwards with Cora upon his arm, and a jealous pang shot through her; but it passed away, and she resigned herself to her position, as if she had suffered so many pangs of late that her senses were growing blunted, and suffering was becoming easier to her.

Morton Denville was dismissed soon after in favour of Sir Matthew Bray; and, in his boy-like excitement, looked elated one moment as the half-fledged officer of dragoons, annoyed and self-conscious the next, as he kept seeing his father bowing and mincing about the rooms, or caught sight of his sister, whom he shunned.

It was a miserable evening, he thought, and he wished he had not come.

Then he wondered whether he looked well, for he fancied that the Adjutant had smiled at him.

A minute later he was thinking that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and this enjoyment he found in a glass of Mrs Pontardent’s champagne.

The dancing went on; so did the flirting in the saloons and in the garden, which was brilliant in front of the windows, deliciously dark and love-inspiring down the shady walks, for there the strains of the band came in a sweetly subdued murmur that the young officers declared was intoxicating, a charge that was misapplied.

The play grew higher as the night wore on, the conversation and laughter louder, the dancing more spirited, and the party was at its height when Mrs Pontardent, in obedience to an oft-repeated look from Major Rockley, walked up to him slowly, and took his arm.

“My dear Major: what a look!” she said banteringly. “You met the handsome youth, and you shot him. After that you ought to be friends, whereas I saw you exchange a look with poor Mr Linnell that was only excelled by the one you gave Colonel Mellersh.”

“Damn Colonel Mellersh!” said Rockley savagely.

“By all means,” said the lady mockingly; “but not in my presence, please.”

“Don’t talk twaddle,” exclaimed Rockley, as they passed out of the drawing-room window and across the lawn.

It so happened that Cora Dean had been dancing with a handsome young resident of the place, and, after the dance, he had begged her to take a stroll with him out in the grounds.

“No, no,” she said, amused by the impression made upon his susceptible nature; “that means taking cold.”

“I assure you, no,” he exclaimed rather thickly. “It’s warm and delightful outside. Just one walk round.”

She was about to decline, when she caught Richard Linnell’s eyes fixed upon her and her companion, and, urged by a feeling of coquetry, and a desire to try and move him to speak to her, if it were only to reproach, she took the offered arm, and, throwing a lace scarf over her head, allowed her partner to lead where he would, and that was naturally down one of the darkest grass alleys of the grounds.

“Do you know, Miss Dean,” he began thickly, “I never saw a girl in all my life who – ”

“Can we see the sea from the grounds here?” said Cora.

“Yes; lovely view,” he said. “Down here;” and he led her farther from the house. “There, you can see the sea from here, but who would wish to see the sea when he could gaze into the lovely eyes of the most – ”

“Is not that an arbour?” said Cora, as they stood now in one of the darkest parts of the garden.

“Yes. Let’s sit down and have a talk, and – ”

“Will you lead the way?” said Cora.

“Yes; give me your hand – eh – why – what dooce! She’s given me the slip. Oh, ’pon my soul, I’ll pay her for that.”

He started back towards the house, passing close by Cora, who had merely stepped behind a laurustinus, and who now went in the other direction, along a grass path at the back of the lawn.

Her white satin slippers made not the slightest sound, and she was about to walk straight across the lawn and out into the light, when a low, deep murmur reached her ear, and she recognised the voice.

“Major Rockley,” she said to herself. “Who is he with?”

Her jealous heart at once whispered “Claire!”

“If I could but bring Richard face to face with them now!” she thought, “he would turn to me after all.”

She hesitated, for the thought of the act being dishonourable struck her; but in her mental state, and with her defective education, she was not disposed to yield to fine notions of social honour; and, with her heart beating fast, she hurried softly along the grass, to find herself well within hearing of the speakers.

The words she heard were not those of love, for they were uttered more in anger. It was at times quite a quarrel changing to the tone of ordinary conversation.

Cora glanced behind her, to see the brightly lit-up house and hear the strains of music and the sounds of laughter and lively remark, while, by contrast with the glow in that direction, the bushes amid which she stood and into which she peered seemed to be the more obscure.

There was a pause, and then a woman’s voice said quickly:

“No, no; I cannot. You must not ask me, indeed.”

A curious feeling of disappointment came over Cora, for her plan was crushed on the instant. What were other people’s love affairs to her?

She was turning away with disgust, when the deep voice of the Major said quickly, and in a menacing way which rooted the listener to the spot:

“But I say you shall. One word from me, and you might have to leave Saltinville for good. I mean for your own good.”

“Oh, Rockley!”

“I don’t care; you make me mad. Here have I done you endless little services, helped you to live in the style you do; and the first little favour I ask of you, I am met with a flat refusal.”

“I don’t like to refuse you, but the girl is – ”

“Well, you know what the girl is. Hang it all, Pont, should I ask you if it were not as I say – unless it were that rich heiress I am to carry off some day.”

“And the sooner the better.”

“Yes, yes; but time’s going. It’s now eleven, and I must strike while the iron’s hot.”

“But, Rockley – ”

“More opposition? What the devil do you mean?”

“I don’t like to be mixed up with such an affair.”

“You will not be mixed up with it. No one will know but our two selves.”

“My conscience goes against such a trap.”

“Your conscience!” he hissed angrily.

“Well, and do you suppose I have none? The girl is too good. I like her. It is a shame, Rockley.”

Cora Dean’s heart beat as if it would suffocate her, while her mouth felt dry and her hands moist. She could hardly have moved to save her life. She knew what it was, she felt sure. It was a plot against Claire, and if it were —

Cora Dean did not finish her thought, but listened as Rockley spoke again.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Four.
Too Late

“How long has the fair Pontardent taken to the nursing up of scruples?”

“Do you suppose a woman is all evil?” was the retort. “You men make us bad enough, but you cannot kill all the good. I say it is a shame.”

“A shame!” said Rockley derisively. “Ha, ha, ha! What a woman you are! You don’t know what has taken place. I tell you this; she is mine. All she wants is the excuse and opportunity that she finds to-night with me. The old man watches her like a hawk.”

“Is this really so, Rockley?”

“On my honour. I should not have done what I have if she were not willing. I’ve a chaise and four waiting outside the lower gate behind here.”

“You have?”

“It has been there this half hour, and we are only waiting for our opportunity. Now then, will you help me?”

“Well,” said Mrs Pontardent hesitating, “if it is that – ”

“It is like that, I tell you; but she wants it to appear that she had no hand in it, to keep up the fiction. You see?”

“Yes,” said the woman, rather hoarsely; “but I don’t like it, Rockley.”

“Friends or enemies? – one word?” he said sternly.

“Friends,” she said quickly. “What am I to do?”

“Go back at once, and get hold of young Denville. He’s half-tipsy somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“Tell him he has shamefully neglected his sister, and that he is to take her out in the garden for a walk straight down the broad grass path, and beg her pardon.”

“But – ”

“Not a word. Do what I say. The boy will obey you like a sheep dog.”

“And then?”

“What then? That is all.”

“But, Rockley, no violence.”

“Bah! Rubbish! Do as I bid you. I shall push the boy into a bush; that’s all.”

There was a dead silence.

“Must I do this, Rockley?”

“Yes, you must. Go at once. You shall not be mixed in the affair at all. No one can blame you, for the boy is too tipsy to recollect anything to-morrow. Now go.”

There was a rustle of a dress, and Cora had just time to draw out of sight as Mrs Pontardent passed her.

Cora heard her voice as she went by. It was almost like a sigh, but the words were articulate, and they were:

“God forgive me! It is too bad.”

What to do?

Cora stood motionless, her pulses beating furiously, and the blood surging to her brain, and seeming to keep her from thinking out some plan.

Major Rockley – the cruel, insolent libertine – had a post-chaise waiting; by a trick Claire was to be got out, and down the broad walk, led like a sheep to the slaughter by her weak, half-tipsy brother, and then carried off. The plan seemed to Cora devilish in its cunning, and the flush of her ardent blood intoxicated her with a strange feeling of excitement – a wild kind of joy.

It was all for her. Claire away – carried off, or eloped with Rockley, Richard Linnell would rage for a week, and then forget her. Poor fellow! How he had struggled to hide that limp, and how handsome he looked. How she loved him – her idol – who had saved her life. He would be hers now, hers alone, and there would be no handsome, sweet-voiced rival in the way to win him to think always of her soft, grey, loving eyes – so gentle, so appealing in their gaze, that they seemed to be looking out of the darkness at her now.

Yes, there they were so firm and true – so softly appealing, and yet so full of womanly dignity that, as she hated her, so at the same time she loved.

“And in perhaps half an hour she would be away – on the road to London – in the Major’s arms.”

“And Richard Linnell will be free to love me, and me alone?”

She said it aloud, and then tore at her throat, for a thought came that made the blood surge up and nearly suffocate her.

“Why, he would curse me if he knew, and loathe me to his dying day.”

She took a few hasty steps forward, and then staggered and stopped short.

“I must have been mad!” she panted. “Am I so bad as that?”

She hurried towards the house, and narrowly missed her late partner as she reached one of the windows.

Thank heaven! she was not too late. There sat Claire where she had left her. No: it was some other lady.

She hurried in as quickly as she could without exciting notice.

Where was Claire?

She went from room to room, but she was not visible.

Where was Richard Linnell?

Nowhere to be seen.

If she could find Colonel Mellersh, or Mr Barclay – but no; there was not a soul she knew, and from different parts of the room men were approaching her, evidently to ask her to dance.

She escaped into another saloon, and there was Denville.

She took a few steps towards him, but he hurried away as if to attend to a call from their hostess, who was smiling at the end of the room. The next moment Cora saw her take the arm of the Master of the Ceremonies and go through a farther door.

Impossible to speak to him now. It was as if Mrs Pontardent had divined the reason of her coming, and was fighting against her with all her might.

Another gentleman approached, but she shrank away nervously, expecting each moment to see again her companion of the dark walk.

All at once, to her great joy, she caught sight of Mrs Barclay, looking in colour like a full-blown cabbage-rose, and exhaling scent.

She hurried up to the plump pink dame, to be saluted with:

“Ah, my dear, how handsome you do look to-night!”

“Where’s Claire Denville?” cried Cora huskily.

“Claire, my dear? Oh, she was with me ever so long, but she has just gone down the grounds.”

A spasm seemed to shoot through Cora Dean as she said to herself: “Too late!”