The Master of the Ceremonies
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a sicksister, and that the world of society talks about it all as if it werestuff sent on purpose to supply them with news. Lord Carboro', I usedto wish I were well in society. I don't wish it now. Good morning."
"One moment," said the old man hastily. "You'll shake hands?"
He held out his, but Cora gave it a tap with her whip handle, and herponies went off at a canter, leaving his lordship hat in hand.
"And looking dooced ridiculous," he said angrily. And then, "Confoundthe jade!" he muttered. "How dare she!"
Then his wrinkled countenance changed, and a pleasant smile took theplace of the angry look.
"Confound her! What a dig to give me with her sharp tongue. Well, it'strue enough, and I like her for it. Does she like Claire, or does shehate her and pretend to feel all this? Who can say? The more you knowof a woman, the greater mystery she seems. Poor old Denville! Theplace doesn't seem natural without him and his snuff-box. I miss himhorribly. Now I wonder whether they'd miss me if I were to go--as Ishall go--soon."
He walked thoughtfully on.
"Yes; they'd miss me, and talk about me as if I were a confounded oldcuriosity, and make jocular remarks about my donkey--by George, how mycorns shoot, I wish he were here. But no one will care when I'm gone--not one; and no one will be the better for my having lived."
He walked on slowly, thinking of the last time he had seen Claire, andof the troubles that had fallen to her share, and then he muttered:
"Yes! something must be done."
Volume Three, Chapter XII.
FROM PARADE TO PRISON.
Sunken of eye, hollow of cheek, with the silvery stubble of many days'growth upon his chin, glistening in the bar of light that came throughthe grated window, Stuart Denville, Master of the Ceremonies atSaltinville, high-priest to the votaries of fashion who worshipped atthat seaside shrine, sat upon his truckle bed, his head down upon hishands, his elbows on his knees, gazing apparently at the dancing motesin the well-defined ray of sunshine that illumined his cell.
It seemed as if he saw in those tiny motes that danced and rose andfell, the fashionable people who had so influenced his career; but hourafter hour, as he sat there motionless, thinking of his arrest, hisexamination, the fashionable world was to him something that had neverexisted: he could see only the terminative.
On first picturing that terrible end, when, with hideous exactness, thescaffold, the hangman, and the chaplain whispering words of hope andcomfort to the thin, grey-haired, pinioned figure moving on in the slowprocession had loomed up before him in all their terrible minutiae, hehad shivered and shrunk away; but, after a few repetitions of thishorrible waking dream, he had grown so accustomed to it that he foundhimself conjuring up the scene, and gazing at it mentally with a curiouskind of interest that gradually became fascination.
As to the final stage, it would not be so painful as many pangs, mentaland bodily, which he had suffered; and, as to the future, that troubledhim but little. He saw no terrors there, only a long restful sleep,freed from the cares and sufferings that had for long past fallen to hislot.
There were no shudders now, but only a sad wistful smile and a sighalmost of content, the rest of the future seemed so welcome.
"Yes," he said at last, as he pressed his trembling white hands to hislips, and left his seat to pace the cell, falling for the momentinvoluntarily into his old mincing pace, but stopping short and gazingup at the little patch of blue sky he could see; "yes--rest--sleep--Oh,God, I am so weary. Let it end!"
He stood with his hands clasped before him, and now a cloud came overhis countenance, almost the only cloud that troubled him now. Claire;if she only could know--if he could tell her all--his temptations--hisstruggles--the long fight he had passed through.
Then he thought over his past--the mistakes of his life. How muchhappier he might have been if he had chosen differently. How piteoushad been all this sham and pretence, what a weary existence it hadbeen--what insults he had suffered for the sake of keeping up hismiserable position, and obtaining a few guineas.
May!
The thought of his child--his favoured one, with her pretty innocentrosebud of a face and its appealing, trusting eyes. How he hadworshipped that girl! How she had been his idol. How he had believedin her and sacrificed everything for her sake; and now--he lay inprison, one whom the world called murderer; and she, his idol, to whomhe had sacrificed so long, for aught he knew, passing away, and everyoneturned from him and his family as if they were lepers.
Well, he was a social leper. He had made no defence. This man hadcharged him with the crime, and he had not denied it. What wonder thatpeople shrank from him as if he were unclean, and kept away. It was hisfate. The world turned from him--son--daughter. They feared thecontamination of the gaol.
No suffering that the executioner even could inflict would equal theagony of mind through which he had passed.
He clasped his hands more tightly and gazed fixedly before him, his lipsmoving at last, as he said in a low husky whisper:
"All forsake me now. The Master of the Ceremonies must prepare for thegreat ceremony of the law. Oh, that it were over, and the rest werecome!"
He was at the lowest ebb of his misery amid his meditations and thoughtsof home and the social wreck that was there with her thin baby face,when there was the distant sound of bolts being shot. Then there weresteps and the rustle of a dress, the rattle of a great key in the door.Next the bolts of this were shot at top and bottom with a noisy jar; thedoor was thrust open, and the gaoler ushered in a veiled figure inblack. Then the door was closed, the locks and bolts rattled; the heavysteps of the gaoler sounded upon the stone floor, and then the fartherdoor opened and closed.
There was a moment's silence before, with a quick rustling sound, veiland cloak were thrown aside upon the bed, and Claire's soft arms claspedthe wasted, trembling form, drawing the grey careworn face down upon herbreast as she sobbed out:
"Father--father, has it come to this?" Denville remained silent for afew moments, and then with an exceeding bitter cry:
"My child! my child!" he wailed. "I said you had forsaken me in my soreneed."
"Forsaken you, dear? Oh, no, no, no!" whispered Claire, fondling him asif he had been a child, and gently drawing him to the bed, upon whichshe sank, while he fell upon his knees before her, utterly weak andhelpless now, as he yielded to the caresses she lavished upon him, andshe whispered words that seemed full of comfort--forerunners of the resthe had prayed for so short a tune before.
"Forsaken you?" she whispered. "Oh, my dear, dear father! How couldyou think it of your child!"
"The world says I am a murderer, and I am in prison."
"Hush!" she cried, laying her hand upon his lips. "It was only thismorning I could get permission to see you."
She laid her soft white hand upon his lips as she spoke, and then,seeming to make an effort and check her own emotion, she drew him closerto her.
"Ah!" he sighed as he clung to her; "and I always acted so unfairly toyou, my child. But tell me--May?"
"She does not know," said Claire earnestly. "In her weak state it mightkill her."
"Perhaps better it did," said Denville solemnly. "Poor, weak, erringgirl!"
"Hush! Don't!" cried Claire. "Father, there is hope--there isforgiveness for us all if we show that we are indeed repentant. May isnot like others. Always weak and wilful and easily turned aside fromwhat was right. No: we must not despond. I must take you both far, faraway, dear. I have come for that now. You must advise with me and helpme," she said quickly. "Tell me what I am to do--what I am to setabout. Come, father, quick!"
"What you are to do?" he said sadly. "Trust in heaven, my child: wecannot shape our own paths in life, and when we do try the end iswreck."
"Father," she cried impetuously, "do you think I was speaking of myself?I want you to tell me whom to ask for help."
"Help, my child?"
"Yes: for money. May I ask the Barclays? They
have always been sokind. Surely they will help us now."
"Help us--money?" he said vacantly.
"Yes, for your defence. We must have counsel, father. You shall besaved--saved that we may go far from here. Father, I cannot bear it.You must be saved."
He was startled by the wildness of her manner and the fierce energy shethrew into her words.
"You do not speak," she cried imperiously, and she laid her hands uponhis shoulders and gazed into his eyes. "You must not, you shall notgive up and let yourself drift to destruction. Why do you not tell me?I am only a woman. Father, what shall I do?"
"What shall you do?" he said mournfully.
"Yes, yes. Forgive me for what I say--I, your child, who love