twice," said Isaac,entering the room; "and Eliza says shall she go?"
"No, Isaac, your mistress will visit her ladyship," said the MC withdignity. "You can clear away, Isaac--you can clear away."
Stuart Denville, Esquire, walked to the window and took a pinch ofsnuff. As soon as his back was turned Isaac grinned and winked atMorton, 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 thewindow to catch angrily from the table some half-dozen letters which thefootman had placed ready for him to see.
"Bills, bills, bills," he said, in a low, angry voice, thrusting themunread into the drawer of a cabinet; "what am I to do? How am I topay?"
He sat down gracefully, as if it were part of his daily life, and hisbrow wrinkled, and an old look came into his face as he thought of thesix months' arrears of the lady who occupied his first floor, and hishands began to tremble strangely as he seemed to see open before him anold-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, andenable him to keep up appearances, and struggle on, till Claire was wellmarried, and his son well placed.
Money--money--always struggling on for money in this life of beggarlygentility; while only on the next floor that old woman on the very brinkof 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 litupon a list of bankrupts.
Was it come to that? He was heavily in debt to many of thetradespeople. The epidemic in the place last year had kept so manypeople away, and his fees had been less than ever. Things still lookedbad. Then there was the rent, and Barclay had said he would not wait,and there were the bills that Barclay held--his acceptances for moneyborrowed at a heavy rate to keep up appearances when his daughter May--his idol--the pretty little sunbeam of his house--became Mrs FrankBurnett.
"Barclay is hard, very hard," said the Master of the Ceremonies tohimself. "Barclay said--"
He again made that gesture, a gracefully made gesture of repellingsomething 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 thebest, and had them replaced with paste. It took a connoisseur to tellthe 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 curiouslook in his eyes.
"No, no," he ejaculated excitedly as he walked up and down, "agentleman, 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 whohas gone to his grave like that."
He shuddered and stood gazing out of the window at the sea, whichglittered in the sunshine like--yes, like diamonds.
Barclay said he had often changed diamonds for paste, and no one but ajudge could tell what had been done. Half a dozen of the stones from abracelet replaced with paste, and he would be able to hold up his headfor a year, and by that time how changed everything might be.
Curse the diamonds! Was he mad? Why did the sea dance and sparkle, andkeep on flashing like brilliants? Was it the work of some devil totempt him with such thoughts? Or was he going mad?
He took pinch after pinch of snuff, and walked up and down with studieddancing-master strides as if he were being observed, instead of alone inthat shabby room, and as he walked he could hear the dull buzz of voicesand a light tread overhead.
He walked to the window again with a shudder, and the sea still seemedto be all diamonds.
He could not bear it, but turned to his seat, into which he sankheavily, and covered his face with his hands.
Diamonds again--glistening diamonds, half a dozen of which, taken--whynot borrowed for a time from the old woman who owed him so much, andwould not pay? Just borrowed for the time, and paste substituted tillfate smiled upon him, and his plans were carried out. How easy it wouldbe. And she, old, helpless, would never know the difference--and it wasto 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 reputationshe could blast."
So easy; the old woman took her opiate every night, and slept tillmorning. She would not miss the cross--yes, that would be the one--no,a bracelet better. She never wore that broad bracelet, Claire said, nowshe 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 attwelve, and he hopes you will be in."
"Yes, yes, Isaac; say yes, I will be in," said the wretched man, sinkingback 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 tosay?" he whispered. "Oh, it is too horrible to bear!"
Once more he started to his feet and walked to the window and looked outupon the sea.
Diamonds--glittering diamonds as far as eye could reach, and the Masterof the Ceremonies, realising more and more the meaning of the wordtemptation, staggered away from the window with a groan.
Volume One, Chapter III.
THE FLICKERING FLAME.
"Draw the curtains, my dear, and then go into the next room, and throwopen the French window quite wide."
It was a mumbling noise that seemed to come out of a cap-border lying ona pillow, for there was no face visible; but a long thin elevation ofthe bedclothes, showing that some one was lying there, could be seen inthe dim light.
Claire drew the curtains, opened a pair of folding-doors, and crossedthe 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 acreeper was trained, and stood by a few shrubs in pots gazing out at thebrilliant sea; but only for a few moments, before turning, recrossingthe skimpily furnished drawing-room, and going into the back, where thelarge four-post bedstead suddenly began to quiver, and the bullionfringe all round to dance, as its occupant burst into a spasmodic fit ofcoughing.
"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, hurryingagain to the bedside, where, as she drew aside the curtains, the morninglight displayed a ghastly-looking, yellow-faced old woman, whose headnodded and bowed in a palsied manner, as she sat up, supporting herselfwith one arm, and wiped her eyes--the hand that held the handkerchiefbeing claw-like and bony, and covered with a network of prominent veins.
She was a repulsive-looking, blear-eyed old creature, with ahigh-bridged aquiline nose that seemed to go with the claw-like hand. Afew strands of white hair had escaped from beneath the great mob of lacethat frilled her nightcap, and hung over forehead and cheek, which werelined 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 nosethreatening to tap her chin as she spoke. "It's--it's killing me. Inever had such a cough before. Damn Saltinville! I hate it."
"Oh, Lady Teigne, how can you talk like that!" cried Claire. "It is soshocking."
"What! to say damn? 'Tisn't. I'll say it again. A hundred times if Ilike;" 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'tlook at me in that proud way, as if you were rejoicing because you areyoung, and I am a little old. You'll be like me some day. If youlive--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'sstrong this morning, and put a little more cognac in, child. Don't youget starving me. Tell your father, child, that I shall give him acheque some day. I haven't forgotten his account, but he is not topester me with reminders. I shall pay him when I please."
"My father would be greatly obliged, Lady Teigne, if you
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