The Master of the Ceremonies

by George Manville Fenn

release herself, the other door opened, and Denvilleentered, 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 thistime, except reputation. I had made up my mind to come and stopto-night, as my wife's here; but, after this, the sooner she's out ofthis 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 eyesfixed upon the cold, stern face of Richard Linnell, as he stood back bythe door.

  "Sir Harry Payne, speak, I insist," cried Denville fiercely. "What doesthis mean?"

  "Hush, sir! Hush! pray, gentlemen. A little bit of gallantry, nothingmore."

  "Sir!" cried Denville.

  "Hush, sir, pray!" cried Sir Harry, who was white and trembling withdread. "No noise--the neighbours--the scandal. Perfectly innocent, Iassure you. An assignation. I came to see Miss Denville here."

  Claire turned her eyes slowly from Richard Linnell, whose look seemed towither her, and fixed them on the despicable scoundrel, who wasscreening her sister before her husband, but who would not meet herstern 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 downon his shoulder with a grip like a vice.

  Claire saw it--the brave, true effort to defend her in her disgrace, andshe lifted her eyes once more to Linnell's. Then she let them close,and stood there silent, with the sweet little girlish innocent-lookingface of her sister before her, as she stayed listening to thecondemnation of husband and father--little May, her father's darling--inher place. One word would save her, would clear her in the sight of theman who loved her, and of the father who stood sternly there; but shemust condemn May to save herself, and she stood there as if convicted ofthe shameful act.

  For she spoke no word, and her sister's fame was saved.

  Volume Two, Chapter XVII.

  A STAUNCH FRIEND.

  "No, Miss Clode; I can be angry, and I can speak my own mind, but I'mnot 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 aword 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 goodcustomers, 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 havetold you what I did, only you know you came and asked me what peoplewere saying."

  "Well, so I did. Yes, you're right, I did. But it isn't true, MissClode. Miss Claire Denville is as good as gold, and people tell mosthorrible stories, and where you get to know so much I can't think. Butdoes everybody talk about it?"

  "Yes, ma'am, everybody; and Mr and Mrs Burnett haven't been theresince."

  "I don't care: I won't believe it. And is it a fact that she goesregularly 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 saythe young gentleman who has only just joined the dragoons is horriblyput out, and challenged Sir Harry Payne, only the Colonel would not letthem fight."

  "Dear--dear--dear! Poor Denville! he has nothing but misfortunes. I amsorry 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 illof her in my presence."

  There was a very strong resemblance to a ruffled hen, whose chickens hadbeen looked at by a strange cat, in Mrs Barclay's aspect as she leftMiss Clode's, while, at her aunt's command, Annie, the bun-faced, moveda Berlin wool pattern on one side in the window so that she couldcommand a view of the Parade from the bulging panes, and after watchingthere 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 theDenvilles', and then stopped short, indignant with herself; turned backand given a good bold rap at the door, to which Isaac, who lookeddiscontented 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 wasrummaging in her reticule for a half-crown, but could only find a goodold-fashioned crown, which she slipped into the footman's hand.

  To a man-servant who was beginning to look upon his arrears of wages asdoubtful, a crown-piece was a coin not to be despised, and he took itand 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 tosee 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, whereClaire 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 gaveher 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 singlesynnable of the pack o' lies, I've come to see you. There!"

  That _there_ came like an expiration of the breath as she plumpedherself down, and the next minute Claire was upon her knees, her armsround the wide waist, and her face buried in the extensive bosom,sobbing violently, and relieving herself in tears of the pressure thathad been crushing her down ever since the troubles of that terriblenight.

  "That's right, my darling: you cry--cry hard. A good cup o' tea and agood cry's the greatest blessings o' Providence for us poor sufferingwomen. No, no: you needn't put a hankychy between. My Jo-si-ah neverstints me in dresses, and you may spoil a dozen of 'em if that'll do youany good."

  "Mrs Barclay--Mrs Barclay!"

  "No, no, no: you're going to take and try and explain and a lot more ofit; but I won't hear a word. I tell you I don't believe nothing ofwhat's about. I said if Miss Claire Denville did this or that, she hadgood reason, being like the mother of that family, as even manages herpoor 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, mydear, as would have been as old as you. Not like you, of course, but itseems as if she might have kissed me like that. I'm a very vulgar sortof 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 anotherword about all that, for I know everything, and how all the people arecutting you and your poor pa. But never you mind, my dear. Lots of thepeople you knew were very fine-weather friends, such as run away as soonas a storm blows. You've got a clear conscience, so don't you take onabout it, but live it down."

  "I shall try to," said Claire, with a smile--the first that had beenseen on her face for days.

  "It's what I often say to my Jo-si-ah, though I haven't got a clearconscience through Barclay's money transactions, which ought to be onhis, but as I keep his books, and know everything, they trouble me allthe same. So everybody's cutting you, eh?"

  "Yes," said Claire sadly.

  "Then you cut them till they beg your pardon. And now, my dear, justone word from a simple plain wom
an, whose heart's in the right place.If you want some one to confide in, or you want help of any kind, youknow where Betsey Barclay lives, and that's where there's help, whetherit's a kind word, a cup o' tea, or some one that you can put your armsround and cry upon, and whose purse is open to you, if you'll excuse mefor mentioning it."

  "Miss Dean, ma'am," said Isaac, opening the door.

  "Not at--"

  "Which I thought