Kitabı oku: «The Master of the Ceremonies», sayfa 24
Volume Three – Chapter One.
Miss Clode is Mysterious
Richard Linnell had left his quiet, patient-looking father busily copying a sheet of music, and joined Colonel Mellersh, who was waiting at the door ready for a stroll.
Cora Dean’s ponies were in the road, and that lady was just about to start for a drive.
Somehow, her door opened, and she came rustling down, closing her ears to a petulant call from her mother, and – perhaps it was an accident – so timed her descent that it would be impossible for the gentlemen to avoid offering to hand her to the carriage.
They both raised their hats as they stood upon the step, and she smiled and looked at Richard Linnell, but he did not stir.
“Come, Dick,” said Mellersh, with a half-sneer; “have you forgotten your manners?”
Linnell started, offered his arm, which was taken, and he led Cora down to the little carriage, the ponies beginning to stamp as the groom held their bits, while the bright, smiling look of their mistress passed away.
“The ponies look rather fresh,” said Richard Linnell, trying to be agreeable. “I should have their bearing reins tightened a little.”
“Why?” said Cora sharply, and with a glance full of resentment: and, at the same moment, she noted that Mellersh was leaning against the door-post, looking on.
“Why?” repeated Linnell, smiling in her face – but it was not the smile she wished to see – “for fear of another accident, of course.”
“What would you care?” she said in a low whisper. “I wish there would be another accident. Why didn’t you let me drown? I wish I were dead.”
She gave her ponies a sharp lash, the groom leaped aside, caught the back of the carriage, and swung himself up into his seat, and away they dashed at a gallop, while Linnell stood gazing after them, till Mellersh laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“Dick, Dick,” he said banteringly, “what a fierce wooer you are! You have been saying something to offend the fair Cora. Come along.”
“Does it give you pleasure to banter me like this?”
“Banter, man? I was in earnest.”
They walked along the parade in silence, and had not gone far before they met the Master of the Ceremonies, who raised his hat stiffly, in response to their salutes, and passed on.
“Oh, man, man, why don’t you take the good the gods provide you, instead of sighing after what you cannot have.”
“Mellersh,” said Richard, as if he had not heard him, “if I make up my mind to leave Saltinville, will you pay a good deal of attention to the old man?”
“Leave – Saltinville?”
“Yes; I am sick of the place. I must go right away.”
“Stop a moment! Hold your tongue! There is that scoundrel, Rockley, with his gang.”
In effect, a group of officers came along in the opposite direction, and, but for the disposition shown them to avoid a quarrel, their offensive monopolisation of the whole of the path would have resulted in an altercation.
“I shall have to cripple that fellow,” said Mellersh, as they walked on, after turning out into the road in passing the group. “I wonder young Denville does not shoot him for his goings on with his sister.”
“Mellersh!”
“I can’t help it, Dick; I must speak out. Rockley is indefatigable there. The fellow is bewitched with her, and is always after her.”
“It’s a lie!” exclaimed Linnell.
“Call me a liar if you like, Dick, my lad. I shan’t send you a challenge. Plenty of people will satisfy you as to the truth of what I say, and I speak thus plainly because I am weary of seeing you so infatuated with Claire Denville.”
Linnell tried to draw his arm away, but the Colonel retained it.
“No, no, my dear boy, we cannot quarrel,” he said. “It is impossible. But about this going away. Right. I would go. It will cure you.”
“Cure me?” said Linnell bitterly.
“Yes, cure you. Dick, my boy, it makes me mad to see you so blind – to see you let a woman who looks guileless lead you – Well, I’ll say no more. I cannot believe in Claire Denville any more than I can in her little innocent-looking jade of a sister.”
Linnell uttered an impatient ejaculation.
“She goes about with a face as round-eyed as a baby’s, and as smooth; while all the time I know – ”
Linnell turned to him a look so full of agony that he ceased on the instant, but began again.
“I cannot help it, Dick,” he said. “It worries me to see you growing so listless over a passion for a woman who does not care a straw for you.”
“If I could believe that,” said Linnell, “I could bear it; but I am tortured by doubts, and every friend I have seems to be bent upon blackening the reputation of a woman who has been cruelly maligned.”
Mellersh began to whistle softly, and then said, sharply:
“What! going in here?”
“Yes; will you come?”
“No,” said Mellersh, giving him a curious look. “Expect a letter? Tut-tut, man, don’t eat me. You would not be the first man who made a post-office of Miss Clode’s circulating library. What is it, then – fiddle-strings?”
Linnell nodded.
“Go in, then; you can join me presently. I shall be on the pier. I say, Dick, the fair directress of this establishment ought to put up on her sign, ‘Dealer in heart-strings and fiddle-strings.’ There, good-bye for the present.”
The Colonel went on, keeping a sharp look-out for Cora Dean’s pony-carriage; but it did not meet his eyes; and Richard Linnell turned into the library, meeting Lady Drelincourt, who smiled and simpered as she passed out, thrusting a book into her reticule.
Miss Clode was just disappearing into the inner room, leaving round-eyed Annie in charge; but as soon as that young lady caught sight of Linnell, she darted back to whisper loudly:
“Auntie, auntie: here’s Mr Richard Linnell.”
The latter saw no reason why little Miss Clode should flush and turn pale, and then look up at him in a wistful manner, almost with reproach in her eyes.
“Why, it’s quite a month since I’ve seen you, Mr Linnell,” she said, “and – and you look quite pale and thin.”
“Do I, Miss Clode?” he said, smiling. “Ah, well, it’s a healthy sign – of robust health, you know. I want some – ”
“But you don’t look well, Mr Linnell,” she said hastily. “Annie, my dear, take this book to Mrs Barclay’s, and make haste back.”
“Yes, auntie,” said the girl, in an ill-used tone.
“And make haste,” cried Miss Clode. “Will you excuse me a minute, Mr Linnell?”
“Oh, of course,” said the young man listlessly. “Give me the case with the violin strings, and I’ll select some.”
Miss Clode did not appear as if she heard him, but went to the back of the shop to hurry her niece away, to that young lady’s great disgust, for she wanted to stare at Richard, whom she greatly admired, and hear what was said. Consequently, he was left turning over the books for a few minutes before Miss Clode returned, and, to his surprise, stood gazing up at him wistfully.
“Well, Miss Clode,” he said with forced gaiety, “suppose somebody were waiting for me to join in a sonata?”
“I – I beg your pardon,” she cried, flushing, and turning her back, she obtained the tin case that held the transparent rings, and placed it before him with a deep sigh.
“Not well, Miss Clode?” said Richard cheerfully.
To his astonishment she caught his hand in hers, and burst into tears.
“No, no, no,” she cried, sobbing violently, “I am ill – heart-sick. Mr Linnell, please, pray come in, I want to speak to you.”
“Why, Miss Clode!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, you are surprised,” she exclaimed, “greatly surprised. You, so young and handsome, an independent gentleman, are astonished that a poor insignificant woman in my humble position should be always anxious about you – should – should – there, I can keep it back no longer,” she cried passionately, as she held with both hands tightly that which he tried to withdraw. “I must speak – I must tell you, or you will wreck and ruin your dear life. Mr Linnell – Richard – I love you. I love you so that I cannot bear to see and hear what I do – you are breaking my heart.”
“Miss Clode!” cried Richard Linnell, amazed, filled with contempt, sorrow, pity, all in one. “Think of what you are saying. Why, what madness is this?”
“The madness of a wretched, unhappy woman, who has known you so long, and whose love for you is a hundred times stronger than you can believe. But hush! Come in here. Some one may call at any moment, and I could not bear for them to see.”
She loosed his hand, made a quick movement towards the little door at the end of the counter, and held it open for him to pass in.
It was a painful position for one so full of chivalrous respect for women, and the young man stood trying to think of what to say to release himself in the best way from a situation that he would have looked upon as ludicrous, only that it was so full of pain.
“You are shrinking from me!” she exclaimed. “Pray, pray, don’t do that, Mr Linnell. Have I not suffered enough? Come in; let me talk to you. Let me try and explain.”
“It is impossible,” he said at last sternly. “Miss Clode, believe me that I will never breathe a syllable about this to a soul, but – ”
“Oh, you foolish, foolish boy!” she exclaimed, bursting into an hysterical fit of laughter. “How could you think such a thing as that? Is there no love a poor, weak, elderly woman like I am, could bear for one she has known from a boy, but such as filled your mind just then? There, there!” she cried, wiping her eyes quickly. “I have spoken wildly to you. Forgive me. I am a poor lonely woman, who fixed her affection upon you, Richard Linnell, farther back than you can imagine. Listen, and let me tell you,” she said in a soft, low voice, as she came round to the front of the counter, and laid her little thin hand upon his arm. “You lost your mother long ago, and have never known what it was to have a mother’s love; but, for years past, your every movement has been watched by me; I have suffered when you have been in pain; I have rejoiced when I knew that you were happy.”
“My dear Miss Clode!” he exclaimed, in a half-wondering, half-pitying tone.
“Yes – yes,” she panted; “speak to me like that. You pay me for much suffering and misery; but don’t – pray don’t despise me for all this.”
“Despise you? No!” he said warmly; “but you do surprise me, Miss Clode. I know you have always spoken very kindly to me.”
“And you have always thought it almost an impertinence,” she said sadly. “It has been. This is impertinent of me, you think, too, but I shall not presume. Mr Linnell, I have something to say to you, and when that is said, I shall keep my distance again, and it will be a secret between us.”
“Why, Miss Clode,” said Richard, trying to smile cheerfully, “you are making up quite a romance out of one of your own books.”
“Yes,” she said, looking wistfully in his eyes, “quite a romance, only it is all true, my dear. Now, will you come in?”
He hesitated for a moment, and then walked right in to the parlour, and she followed him, wiping her red eyes with her handkerchief.
“You will sit down?” she said, drawing forward an elbow-chair.
He took it from her and placed it so that she could sit down, while he took another.
“No,” she said softly, “I will stand. Mr Linnell, please sit down.”
He smiled and looked at her, full of expectancy, while she stood wringing her handkerchief, and puckering up her forehead, her lips parted, and an eager look of pride in her eyes as she gazed at him.
“It is very good of you to come,” she faltered. “I will say what I have to say directly, but I am very weak, my dear – I – I beg your pardon, Mr Linnell. Don’t – don’t think me too familiar. You are not angry with me for loving you?”
“How can I be angry?” he said quickly. “I am surprised.”
“You need not be,” she said. “You would not be, if you knew more of human nature than you do. Mr Richard Linnell, it is in a woman’s nature to desire to cling to and love something. Why should you be surprised that a poor lonely woman like me should love – as a son – the handsomest and truest gentleman we have in Saltinville?”
“It is fortunate for me that we meet but seldom, Miss Clode,” said Richard, smiling, “if you hold me in such estimation as this.”
“I do not see why,” she said gravely. “You are handsome. You are brave. Do you think I do not know how you fought that duel below the cliff?”
“Oh, tut-tut,” he said quickly; “let that rest.”
“Or how bravely you followed that Major Rockley the night when he carried off Miss Dean?”
“My dear Miss Clode,” said Richard quickly, “we shall be drifting into scandal directly.”
She looked at him pityingly, as she saw the flush upon his cheeks, and it seemed to be reflected in hers, as she spoke out now eagerly and quickly, as if she thought there was a risk of his taking offence and hurrying away.
“I will not talk scandal,” she said, standing before him with her hands clasped; “I only want to talk of you – of your future, and to try and stop you before you go wrong.”
“Miss Clode!” he exclaimed warmly.
“Yes,” she said; “be angry with me. I expect it, and I’ll bear it; I’ll bear anything to see you happy. If I had seen you taking the downward course – gambling, or drinking, or intriguing, I should have tried to stop you – tried fiercely, and braved your anger, as I do now. For I must – I will speak.”
“I have neither been gambling, drinking, nor intriguing, Miss Clode,” said Richard laughingly, “so I have not deserved your wrath.”
“You are mocking at me, boy,” she said, with spirit.
“You think me a foolish, eccentric little woman – half mad, perhaps. Think so,” she cried, “and, maybe, you are right; but, with all my weakness and folly, I love you, Richard Linnell, as a mother loves her offspring, and it is to save you from future misery that I have nerved myself to risk your displeasure, and perhaps your future notice, for I am not so vain as to think I can ever be looked upon by you as anything but what I am.”
There was such warmth and sincerity in her words that Richard hastily took her hands.
“Forgive me,” he said; “I am serious, and respect you for all this, Miss Clode.”
She bent down quickly and kissed his hands, making him start, and then look down on her pityingly, his wonder increasing as he saw how moved she was, her tears having fallen on the hands she kissed.
“There,” she cried, “I will not keep you, but I must say what I have on my mind, even if I offend you and make you angry as I did before.”
Richard Linnell looked at her sharply, with his eyes kindling; but, without speaking, she joined her hands together and stood before him as if pleading.
Volume Three – Chapter Two.
Miss Clode Feels that she has done Right
“The woman is mad,” said Richard Linnell, with a pitying look, and he made a movement as if to leave, but she caught his hand.
“Pray – pray stay,” she whispered, “and let me – let me speak.”
“Well, speak,” he said, in a low, angry voice, “but be careful of what you say.”
“It is for your sake,” she whispered. “You do not know what I do. It is my lot to hear and see so much. I only want to take the veil from before your eyes.”
“If it is to blacken some one whom I respect – ”
“Whom you love, boy, with a foolish, insensate love. It is to save you from misery that I speak.”
“To tell me some vile scandal that I will not hear,” he cried.
“That you shall hear, if I die for telling you, boy,” she cried, catching his wrist with both her hands. “Strike me if you like. Crush me if you will, but you shall hear the truth.”
“The truth – what truth, woman?” cried Richard indignantly.
“The truth about – ”
“Hush! you shall not speak her name,” cried Richard furiously.
“It is enough that you know,” said little Miss Clode quickly. “Boy, boy, place your affection elsewhere, and not upon a woman who is about to elope to-night.”
“It is not true,” he cried furiously, “and I am a weak fool to stay and listen to such calumnies.”
“It is true,” said Miss Clode; “and it was to save you from the misery of discovering all this that I made up my mind to tell you.”
“To have the pleasure of retailing this wretched scandal,” he retorted scornfully. “Woman, you disgrace your sex by calumniating a sweet, pure woman.”
“It was to save you agony and despair,” she said piteously. “You might never have known of this. People work so slyly, and in such secrecy; and if you only knew how jealous I am of your future, you would not speak and look at me so cruelly as you do.”
“Stop!” cried Richard fiercely. “It was you sent me that wretched anonymous letter once?”
“Yes,” she said humbly – “to save you from misery – to open your eyes to the truth.”
“To open my eyes to a lie,” he cried. “Miss Clode, enough of this. I promised you that I would look upon this as our secret: let it remain so, and we know each other no more.”
He moved towards the door, but she clung to his wrist.
“That was a mistake,” she panted; “but this time I am sure.”
“I will not listen,” he cried. “Loose my wrist, woman.”
“You shall listen,” she cried. “Richard Linnell, the post-horses are ordered, and Claire Denville leaves her home to-night with – ”
He did not hear the rest, for he had reached the shop, and hurried away, nearly overturning Annie, as she came in to find her aunt in tears.
“Oh, auntie, what is the matter?” she cried.
“Look here,” whispered Miss Clode, “are you sure there was no mistake in what you told me to-day?”
“Quite sure, aunt dear. Jane Moggridge told me that there were post-horses ordered for Major Rockley, and for Sir Harry Payne, and for Sir Matthew Bray.”
“That will do,” said Miss Clode quickly. “Now go right away.”
Annie looked wider-eyed and rounder-faced than ever in her disappointment as she obeyed her aunt, while Miss Clode stood with her hands clasped to her side, gazing straight before her.
“Have I done right?” she said to herself; “have I done wrong? It maddens me to see him so deceived – so blind. It was my duty to awaken him from his miserable infatuation, but suppose mischief should come after it?”
She turned ghastly pale, and clutched at a chair.
“No, no,” she cried, as she battled with her fears; “he is too brave and strong, and he will have Mellersh on his side. I have done right, I am sure. It is half breaking his heart, poor fellow; but better the sharp pain now than one that would last for life.”
Volume Three – Chapter Three.
Mr Barclay is Busy
Josiah Barclay sat at his writing-table, looking about the most uncompromising specimen of humanity possible, when the door was softly opened, and his man-servant came in.
“And nine’s seventy-three,” muttered Barclay, making an entry. “Hang the woman! I wish she’d come down and go on with these accounts. Well, Joseph?”
“Lady Drelincourt, sir.”
“Humph! Bless her! Let her wait. Seen that monkey again, Joseph?”
“Isaac, sir? Denville’s Isaac?”
“Yes, him. Dropped any more hints?”
“Saw him last night, sir, at the Blue Posts.”
“Well?”
“Went on dropping hints again, sir, as soon as he had had a glass or two. ’Fraid he’s a fool, sir.”
“Nothing to be afraid of in a fool, Joseph, so long as you keep him at a distance. So he chatters, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Professes to have a mystery. He could speak if he liked, and there’s a deal he could say if he pleased, and lays his finger on the side of his nose, and all that sort of thing, sir. That’s been going on for months, and it’s what he calls confiding in me; but it never goes any further.”
“And what do you think of it, Joseph?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Barclay’s confidential man drily. “I believe it’s all to make him seem important. Lived a long while in an artificial soil, sir, and goes in for shams.”
Barclay chuckled.
“Don’t give him up, Joseph. I think he does know something, and it may be worth hearing. I find we can’t know too much. Does he confide in anyone else?”
“No, sir, I think not.”
“Well, don’t give him up. Now you can show Lady Drelincourt in: and while she is here run on to Moggridge’s. He has sent me a hint that a chaise or two are ordered for to-night. Find out who are going.”
Joseph nodded and went out, while Barclay was muttering to himself that he liked to make sure none of his sheep were going astray, when Lady Drelincourt was shown in.
“Humph! I must send for my wife,” said Barclay to himself. “It is dangerous when Venus invades one’s home;” and he looked gravely at the overdressed, painted-up old woman, with his thoughts dwelling upon her likeness to Lady Teigne – the murder, the missing jewels – and Isaac’s mysterious communications to his servant when they met at the Blue Posts to smoke a pipe.
“Ah, doctor,” cried her ladyship playfully, “I’ve come to let you feel my pulse.”
“Your pulse, Lady Drelincourt?” said Barclay. “Surely your ladyship’s circulation is not low?”
“Horribly, Barclay. I am fainting for want of the circulating medium.”
“But your ladyship’s lawyers?”
“Oh, I can’t go to them again, and be bothered about deeds.”
“Your ladyship wants acts, eh?”
“To be sure, and at once, Barclay. I want five hundred pounds.”
“A large sum, my lady,” said Barclay warily.
“Stuff! A trifle. Just enough to take me on the Continent and back.”
“Humph!” said Barclay aloud; and to himself: “One of the post-chaises.”
“Now, no nonsense, Barclay, or I shall be compelled to whip you severely with my fan.”
“That ought to be a pleasure, madam,” said Barclay politely. “But what security do you offer for five hundred pounds?”
“Security! and from me, you wicked ogre!” said her ladyship playfully. “Why, you ought to feel honoured.”
“I do, my lady, greatly; but – ”
“There, I don’t want to waste my time listening to stuff. I know what a close-fisted, miserly old wretch you are, and so I came prepared.”
“Prepared, Lady Drelincourt?”
“Of course. I only want a temporary loan, and here are my diamonds.”
She drew a morocco case from the large reticule hanging on her arm, and passed it across the table.
Barclay opened the case, took out a glittering necklet, breathed upon it, glanced at the rest of the contents of the case, replaced the necklet, and closed it.
“Well, monster,” said her ladyship playfully, “will that do?”
“Admirably, my lady,” said Barclay, taking a cash-box from a drawer, and counting out, with deft fingers, a number of notes. “Four fifty-five,” he muttered, as he passed the rustling bundle across to his visitor, and slipped the case and cash-box back.
“I must have no nonsense about those diamonds, Barclay,” said her ladyship, “when I want them back.”
“Your ladyship has only to sign this paper,” replied Barclay, “and hand me 600 pounds, and the gems come back to their owner.”
“Ah, Barclay, you are a dreadful ogre,” she sighed, as she slipped the notes into her reticule. “You are quite as bad as a highwayman.”
“Only more useful, my lady,” chuckled Barclay. “Well, Joseph?”
The servant bent down and whispered:
“Lord Carboro’.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Barclay. “Would your ladyship object to meet Lord Carboro’?”
“Yes. Horrors!” exclaimed her ladyship. “Or no, never mind; let him come up. I have called to inspect some of your china – these Sèvres jars.”
Barclay nodded to his man, who left the room; and, in support of her ladyship’s suggestion, the money-lender was saying: “It’s an opportunity, my dear madam, that does not often occur; the workmanship is unique,” when Lord Carboro’ was shown in, and his keen eyes glittered as he took in the situation at a glance.
“Ah, Lady Drelincourt, you here!”
“Yes, I’m here,” she said, “but I’ve not come to borrow money; have you?”
“Yes,” said his lordship sharply. “Barclay, a word with you.”
The money-lender bowed.
“Don’t change countenance,” said his lordship, “and talk about money. Get out your cash-box, and make believe to give me some.”
Lady Drelincourt walked to the window with a small vase, and took out her great, square, gold-rimmed eye-glass.
“Money’s very tight just now, my lord,” said Barclay aloud.
“That’s right,” said his lordship, in a low tone. “Look here, Barclay. I’d have waited till that old cat had gone, but time’s precious. Look here. I’ve had a nasty hint that hits me very hard. You’ll call me an old fool. Well, I am; but never mind. I shall never have her, but I love that girl of Denville’s, and, damme, sir, I can’t see her go to the bad without stretching out a hand.”
“What have you heard, my lord?” said Barclay, rattling his keys and opening his cash-box.
“There’s some cursed plan afloat – elopement, or that sort of thing – to-night, I think; and we must stop it.”
“We, my lord!” said Barclay, jingling some coin.
“Yes, we. You’re an old friend of Denville’s. I can’t go to him.”
“Who’s the man?” said Barclay.
“Rockley, I think; curse him! Curse all these young, handsome men! Damme, sir, if I were forty years younger I’d be proud to marry her, for she’s a good girl – yes, sir, a good girl.”
Barclay nodded.
“But of course I can’t expect her to take to a toothless, gouty old imbecile like me, poor child.”
“What do you know, my lord?”
“Oh, only a garbled set-out. I’m not quite sure how things are; and sometimes it seems that it’s Sir Harry Payne, sometimes it seems to be Rockley. Now, look here, Barclay. Will you try with me to stop it? I couldn’t bear it to come off. If the girl were going to the church with some true-hearted fellow, I should feel a twinge, but I’d settle a thousand or two on her, and say, ‘God bless her!’ like a man; but I can’t see her go to the bad without making an effort to save her. Barclay, you old scoundrel, you’re laughing at me, and calling me an idiot for taking you into my confidence like this.”
“You don’t think so, my lord,” said Barclay sternly; “and you give me credit for being an honest man, or you would not talk to me in this way.”
“Honest?”
“Yes,” said Barclay sharply. “Am I dishonest for making all the profit I can out of a set of profligates and fools?”
“Barclay,” said his lordship, “if that old cat were not here I’d shake hands with you; as it is, that kick under the table means it. Yes, I do trust you, and your good-hearted wife, too. Will you help me?”
“In every way I can,” said Barclay. “Between ourselves, Lord Carboro’, I’ve had a hint or two of an elopement to-night, and I’m going to see what it means.”
“You have had a hint?” said Lord Carboro’ eagerly.
“Yes, my lord. I must have twenty-five per cent. The risk is too great,” added Barclay aloud. “Drelincourt’s looking,” he said in a low tone. “I’m not sure who it is yet, or what it means; but there’s something on the way, and I’ll help your lordship all I can.”
“That’s right, Barclay. I know you have wires all over the place, and can pull them. You started Moggridge, and I suppose, if the truth’s known, you could arrange for a post-chaise to break down anywhere you pleased.”
“Your lordship gives me credit for being quite a magician,” said Barclay drily. “However, I’ll promise you this: Claire Denville shan’t come to harm if Josiah Barclay can save her.”
“Thank you, Barclay,” said Lord Carboro’ softly. “I’ve not forgotten how she refused those pearls.”
“And cheated me out of a score of good jewel transactions with your lordship,” said Barclay, handing him a slip of paper and a pen, which the old nobleman took and signed in Lady Drelincourt’s full view. “You trust to me, my lord. I’ll make all the inquiries necessary, and communicate with you to-night.”
There was a little mock exchange of papers, and then, pocket-book in hand, Lord Carboro’ turned to Lady Drelincourt.
“I have finished my business,” he said. “Shall I attend you down to your chair?”
As the couple went out of the room with her ladyship mincing and simpering, and giving herself airs, Barclay uttered a low growl.
“I believe that old woman would make love to a mummy or a stone statue if she couldn’t meet with a man. How I do hate the old wretch to be sure!”
“Now look here, Jo-si-ah,” exclaimed Mrs Barclay, entering the room. “I won’t have it, though I don’t believe it’s true.”
“Don’t believe what’s true?”
“That when anyone is by himself and talking aloud, he is holding a conversation with – there I won’t say whom.”
“Pish!” ejaculated Barclay angrily. “There, sit down, woman, and make an entry about Lady Drelincourt’s diamonds and the money I’ve lent on them. Set ’em down in the jewel book and then lock them up in the case. It wouldn’t do to lose them.”
“Like her sister’s were lost,” said Mrs Barclay. “I wonder what became of them, Jo-si-ah.”
She opened the case, examined the jewels, and then opened a cabinet and an iron safe within, where she deposited the valuables, afterwards making an entry in a book kept for the purpose, and another in the big ledger.
“That’s done,” she said with a sigh of content. “Why, Jo-si-ah, what a rich man you are getting.”
“Stuff! Don’t talk nonsense.”
“I say, dear,” she said, “I wonder how it is that Claire Denville hasn’t been here for so long. It seems strange. Here’s somebody else.”
The visitors proved to be Sir Harry Payne with Sir Matthew Bray, Mrs Barclay hurrying out to leave them with her husband.
“Well, gentlemen?” said Barclay drily.
“No, Barclay, it isn’t well,” cried Sir Harry, “nor will it be till I’ve got a couple of hundred pounds out of you.”
“And I one hundred,” said Sir Matthew pompously.
“My turn first,” said Sir Harry, laughing. “Now, Barclay, two hundred, and no nonsense.”
Barclay shook his head, but his money was safe with Sir Harry, for he already held certain deeds that would cover principal and his large interest.
“Now, Matt,” said Sir Harry, “your turn.”
He thrust a sheaf of notes into his pocket laughingly, and Sir Matthew rolled up.
“Now, Mr Barclay,” he said, taking his friend’s seat, while that gentleman began inspecting china and bronzes, “I want only a hundred.”
“Which you can’t have, Sir Matthew,” said Barclay shortly. “You’ve got to the end of your tether, and I shall have to put you in my lawyer’s hands.”
“What, just now, when I have only to go on to be a rich man?”
“My dear Sir Matthew, for two years past I’ve supplied your wants, and you’ve been for ever dangling before my eyes the bait of a rich marriage, when you would pay me back. No more money, sir, from me.”
“Barclay, my dear fellow, don’t be a fool.”
“I’ve just told you that I do not mean to be,” said Barclay shortly. “No hundred from me, Sir Matthew.”
“What, not if the matter were settled, and it was a case of post-horses, Dover, Continent, and a wedding abroad?”
