The Master of the Ceremonies

by George Manville Fenn

you, my dear boy. As far as myduty will allow me, you can count upon me. There: that's it," he said,blotting a sheet of paper, and handing it promptly to the young officer,while he chivalrously refrained from even glancing at thesorrow-burdened figure at his side.

  "By-the-way, Denville," he whispered, calling the young fellow aside,"you can take what leave you like now."

  The flush came back to Morton's face, and he was drawing himself up, butthe Colonel took one hand, while he laid his left upon the lad'sshoulder.

  "No, no, no: I don't mean that, my dear boy. You have behaveduncommonly well, and I never respected you half so much as I do now. Nogentleman in the regiment, I am sure, will think otherwise than I do.Yours is a very painful position, Denville, and, believe me, you have mysympathy from my heart."

  Morton grasped his hand firmly, and then hurried away, for he couldnot trust himself to speak.

  Another encounter had to be gone through, though, and that was with atall, dark officer who came upon them suddenly.

  Morton flushed up again as he felt Claire start, and saw Rockley stopsuddenly, as if about to speak eagerly to the shrinking girl; but hefound Morton's eyes fixed upon him, and returning the look with an angryscowl he passed on.

  A minute later and they were in the infirmary, where, looking white andpinched of aspect, Fred Denville lay, with a regimental nurse at hisside.

  The man rose, and left the side of the bed, for Claire to take his seat.

  "He is to be kept very quiet, ma'am. Doctor's orders," said the manrespectfully. "I shall be just outside if you want anything."

  Fred was lying with his eyes half closed, but he heard the voice andopened them, recognised his visitors, and tried to raise his hand, butit fell back upon the coverlid.

  "Claire?" he said in a voice little above a whisper. "An officer?"

  He smiled sadly, and then seemed half choked by a sob, as Claire threwherself on her knees by him and Morton went to the other side, bentover, and laid his hand upon that lying helpless upon the coverlid.

  "Fred, old fellow," said Morton in a husky voice.

  He could say no more, but stood looking down upon the prostrate figure,awe-stricken at the ravages caused by the wound.

  "Fred--dearest Fred," whispered Claire, kissing the hand she held.

  The wounded man groaned.

  "No, no," he said faintly. "You should not be here; I am no fit companyfor you now."

  "Oh, Fred, dear Fred," cried Claire passionately, "how could you chargeyourself with that dreadful crime?"

  "How?" he said faintly. "Because it must have been true. The poor oldman saw me there, and found my knife upon the carpet."

  "It is impossible," sobbed Claire.

  "I thought so once," replied the wounded man, "but I suppose it's true.I often used to think of the old woman's jewels, and how useful they'dbe. It seemed so easy, too, the way up there--eh, Morton?"

  "Yes, yes; but don't talk like that. Some scoundrel must have seen meclimb up, and have gone there that night."

  "Yes," said Fred feebly, "some scoundrel who knew the way, but who, inhis drunkenness, did not know what he did, and that scoundrel was I."

  "No, no, Fred!" cried Claire.

  "If you did it," said Morton quickly, "what became of the diamonds?"

  "The diamonds, lad?"

  "Yes. Did you have the jewels and sell them?"

  "Never a stone," said Fred slowly. "No, it's all like a cloud. Italways is like a cloud over my mind when I've been having the curseddrink. It sends me mad."

  Claire gazed at him wildly.

  "You ought not to be here, Clairy. Take her away, lad. I'm no fitcompany for her. But tell me--the old man? They have set him free?"

  "No, not yet," said Morton sadly.

  "But he must be set free at once. Poor, weak old fellow! He hassuffered enough. Morton, lad, go to him and try to get him out. Himkill the old woman? He hadn't it in him."

  Fred Denville turned so faint that he seemed to be losing his senses,but Claire bathed his face, and he recovered and smiled up at her.

  "It's hard work to tell you to go, Clairy dear, but you mustn't stayhere. Say one kind word to me, though, my dear; I haven't had much todo with kindness since I left home. I'm sorry I disgraced you all so.Ask the old man to forgive me, and tell him I should like to shake handswith him once, just once, before it's all over."

  "Fred, my dear brother," whispered Claire, pressing his hand to herbreast, while Morton held the other.

  "Ah!" sighed the wounded man, "that's better. Morton, lad, it will soonbe over, and people forget these things in a few days. I'm only in theway. I always have been. You'll get on better when I'm gone."

  "Hush, Fred!"

  He turned his head to Claire, who was gazing at him with burning eyesthat seemed drained of the last tears.

  "You always were a good, true girl to me, Clairy," he whispered faintly,"and I want you to think well of me when I'm gone. I did this horridthing, but I swear I have no recollection of it, and I never reaped ashilling advantage from the theft."

  The same feeling animated father and son in this time of peril--thedesire to stand well in the eyes of Claire, who seemed to them as thewhole world.

  "Think the best you can of me, my little girl," he whispered. "It willsoon be over, and--there's one comfort--I shall die as a soldiershould--do you hear, Morton? No hangman's rope to disgrace us more. Ifell under fire, my lad, and I shall laugh at the judges, and prison,and scaffold and all."

  "Hush! for heaven's sake, Fred!" cried Morton.

  "Yes, I will. It's too much--to talk. I was in a rage with them forshooting me. It was that bully--Bray; but I forgive him, for it savesus all from trouble and disgrace. Morton, lad, don't stop in theregiment. Exchange--do you hear? Exchange, and get them away--Claireand May and the old man--to somewhere else when I'm dead."

  "Fred! Brother!" wailed Claire.

  He smiled at her, and tried to raise her hand to his cheek.

  "Yes, little girl!" he said tenderly. "It's quite right. Cuts theknot--the hangman's knot."

  There was a bitter, decisive tone in these last words, but he changedhis manner again directly, and spoke gently and tenderly.

  "It is no use to hide it, dear sis," he said. "I can't live above a dayor two. I know I shall not, and you see it is for the best. It savesthe old man, and much of the disgrace to you two. Poor old fellow! Inever understood him, Clairy, as I should. Under all that sham andfashionable show he tried hard for us. God bless him! he's a hero."

  "Fred, Fred, you are breaking my heart," wailed Claire.

  "No, no, little one," said Fred, a nervous accession of strengthenabling him to speak out clearly and firmly now. "You must be strongand brave. You will see afterwards that it was all for the best, andthat I am of some good to you all at last. Try and be strong and lookat it all as a blessing. Can you bring the old man here? Morton, lad,with my last breath I'll pray that you may grow up as true and brave afellow. Just think of it, you two--that night. He saw me in the roomand escape, and he held his tongue to save me! Do you remember thatday, Clairy, when he found me with you and attacked me as he did? Icouldn't understand it, then. Ah! it's all plain enough, now. Nowonder he hated me."

  "Fred, you must not talk," said Morton.

  "Not talk, lad?" said Fred with a sad smile. "I've not much morechance. Let me say a few words now."

  He lay silent though for a few moments, and his eyes closed as if gladof the rest; but at the end of a short space he began again in ahalf-wandering manner.

  "Brave old fellow! Not a word. Even when they took him. Wouldn'tbetray me because I was his own son. Tell Claire to tell him--some onetell him--I know why. It was because I was poor mother's favourite--poor mother! How fond she was of me! The scapegrace. They always lovethe black sheep. Claire--fetch Claire."

  He uttered this wildly, and she bent over him, trembling.

  "I am here, dear Fred."

/>   He stared at her without recognition for a few minutes, and then smiledat her lovingly.

  "Only a bad headache, mother," he said. "Better soon. Don't look at melike that. I didn't mean to kill the old woman. I can't remember doingit. What a time it is since I've seen you. But look here, mother.Mind Claire. That scoundrel Rockley! I know him. Stand at nothing.Mind poor Claire, and--"

  A spasm seemed to shoot through him, and he uttered a faint cry of agonyas he knit his brow.

  "Did you speak, dear?" he said huskily. "Have I been asleep?"

  "I--I think so," faltered Claire.

  "Yes, I fell asleep. I was dreaming of the poor mother. Claire dear,it would have killed her to see me here like this. There, there, it'sall for the best. I want to sleep. Tell the old man he must come andforgive me before I go. Bring him, Morton, lad. No: you bring him,Claire. It will be pain to you, my child, but it is to help me. Hewill forgive me--brave, noble old fellow that he is--if you are standingby."

  The door opened, and the military nurse appeared.

  "The doctor says that you must not stay longer now, ma'am," hewhispered.

  "Quite right," said Fred softly, and with the manner of one accustomedto yield to discipline. "Come again to-morrow--bring the old man tome--good-bye, dear, good-bye."

  He hardly turned his head to Morton, but feebly pressed the hand thatheld his. His eyes were fixed with a wild yearning on the sweet, tenderface that bent over him, and then closed as he uttered a sigh of contentwith the long loving embrace that ensued.

  Then, utterly prostrate, Morton led his sister from the room used as aninfirmary, and across the barrack-yard to the gates where a carriage wasin waiting.

  Morton Denville was half stunned by the scene he had just witnessed, andmoved as if mechanically, for he, young as he was, had read the truth inhis brother's face and felt that even if it were possible to obtainleave, he would not probably be able to get his father to the barracksin time.

  It seemed quite a matter of course that a footman should be holding thedoor of this carriage open, and that the servant should draw back forthem to enter, close it, and then mount behind, to shout over the roof,"Mr Barclay's," when the carriage was driven off. Morton Denville saidlittle, and did not realise the chivalrous kindness of Lord Carboro', insending his carriage to fetch Claire back after her painful visit.

  Claire saw absolutely nothing, half blind with weeping, her veil downover her face, and a blacker veil of despair closing her in on everyside, as she fought and struggled with the thoughts that troubled her.She was utterly incapable of grasping what went on around her.

  Now her father seemed to stand before her innocent, and her erringbrother, the true culprit, having, as he had told her, committed thecrime in a drunken fit. Now a change came over her, and she shudderedwith horror as it seemed to her that the author of her being had madehis crime hideously worse in trying to escape its consequences bycharging his eldest born with the dreadful sin.

  Her brain was in a whirl, and she could not think, only pray foroblivion--for rest--since her mental agony was too great to bear.

  One minute she had been gazing on the pallid face of the brother whomshe had loved so well; the next, darkness had fallen, and she barelyrealised the fact that she was handed into a carriage and driven off.All she felt was that there was a place against which she could lay herthrobbing head, and that Morton was trying to whisper words of comfortin her ear.

  Their departure was seen, though, by several.

  Rockley, with a singularly uneasy look upon his dark, handsome face--dread, rage, and despairing love, shown there by turns--watched thebrother and sister leave the barracks, cross the yard, and enter LordCarboro's carriage, and then uttered a furious oath as he saw themdriven off.

  Lord Carboro' himself, too, was near at hand to see that his commandswere executed without a hitch, and the old man went off thoughtfullydown to the pier, to sit and watch the sea, snuff-box in one hand,clouded cane in the other.

  "Poor old Denville!" he muttered softly; and then, below his breath,"Poor girl!"

  Lastly, Richard Linnell and Mellersh saw Claire enter the old nobleman'shandsome chariot, and a curious grey look came over the younger man'scountenance like a shadow, as he stood watching the departure,motionless till the carriage had disappeared, when Mellersh took him bythe arm--

  "Come, Dick," he whispered, "be a man."

  Linnell turned upon him fiercely.

  "I do try," he cried, "but at every turn there is something to tempt mewith fresh doubts."

  Volume Three, Chapter XXII.

  NATURE'S TEMPTATION.

  Claire Denville sat back in her chair utterly exhausted, and feeling asif her brain was giving way. The news from the prison was as hopelessas ever. Fred lay lingering at the barrack infirmary; and though Maywas better she was querulous, and in that terribly weak state when lifeseems to be a burden and thought a weariness and care.

  She was asleep now, and Claire had just risen softly so as not to awakenher, and make her resume her complaints and questions as to how soon herfather would come back and forgive her, and when her husband wouldreturn and take her home, for she was weary of lying there.

  Unreasoning in her weakness, she had that afternoon been bitterlyreproaching Claire for not fetching her child, that she might nurse andplay with it--at a time when she could hardly hold up her arm--and whenshe had been firmly but kindly refused she had burst into a torrent offeeble, querulous reproaches, which had been maddening to Claire in herexcited, overstrained state.

  The door opened, and Mrs Barclay's beaming countenance appeared, andshe stood there beckoning with her fat finger.

  "Let's stand outside and talk," she whispered. "That's right: close thedoor. Now then, my dear, I'll go in and sit with your sister there, foryou're getting overdone; and I tell you what, it's a fine soft evening,you put on your bonnet and shawl and go and have a walk. I don't likeyour going alone, but just take one sharp walk as far as the pier andback, two or three times. It'll do you good."

  "Have you any news, Mrs Barclay?" said Claire, ignoring the wishexpressed.

  "Not yet, my dear, but everybody's working for you. Now, do go."

  Claire hesitated, and then in obedience to the reiterated wish shemechanically did as she was bid, and went out into the cool soft night,the beating of the waves sounding loudly on the shore, while as theybroke a glow as of fire ran along their crests, flashing and sparklingwith soft radiance along the shore.

  But Claire saw nothing, heard nothing--neither the figure that camequickly after her as she left the house, nor the sound of steps.

  For all was one weary confused trouble in her brain, and everythingseemed forced and unnatural, as if it were the mingling of some dream.

  Mrs Barclay had bidden her walk as far as the pier, and in allobedience she had done as she was told, reaching the pier entrance; andthen, attracted she knew not how or why by the darkness and silence, sheturned on to the wooden edifice, and began to walk swiftly along theplanked floor.

  It was very dark that night, only at the end there was a single lightthat shone brightly, and in her confused state this seemed to be thestar of hope leading her on.

  She had not had the slightest intention of going there, but in a raptdreamy way she walked on and on, the vacant place seeming strange. Thelast time she had stood on the pier it had been thronged withwell-dressed promenaders, but that was months--it seemed years--ago,while endless horrors had taken place since then.

  How calm--and still it all was where she walked, while below among thepiles the sea softly ebbed and flowed and throbbed, seeming full ofwhisperings and voices that were hushed lest she should hear the wordsthey said.

  She walked on and still on, and it occurred to her once that it wasalong here that beautiful Cora Dean's ponies had dashed, taking her overthe end into the sea, from which Richard Linnell, so brave and honest,had saved her. She had often heard how the crowd cheered him--RichardLinnell. Cora lov
ed him and was jealous of her, and yet she had nocause to be, for the events of the terrible night--the night of theghastly serenade--killed that for ever.

  Why did she think of all this now? She could not tell. It came. Shefelt that she was not answerable for her thoughts--hardly for herself,as she turned and looked back at the faint lights twinkling upon theParade. It seemed as if she were saying good-bye to the town, where, inspite of the early struggles with poverty, there had been so muchhappiness, as in her young love dream she had felt that Richard Linnellcared for her.

  Yes; it was like saying good-bye to it with all its weary troubles andbitter cares.

  She walked on and on, right to the end, but the light did not shed itsbeams upon her now. It was no longer a star of hope. It sent its lightfar out to sea, but she was below it in the shade, and hope wasforgotten as she leaned over the rail at the end, listening to themysterious whisperings of the water in amongst the piles, and lookingdown into the transparent darkness all lit up with tiny lambent pointswhich were ever going and coming. Now and then there would be a palebluish-golden flash of light, and then quite a ribbon of dots andflashes, as some fish sped through the sea, but it only died out,leaving the soft transparency lit up with the faint dots and specks thatwere ever moving.

  To her right, though, there was a cable, curving down into the sea,