The Master of the Ceremonies Part 130

Rockley made a quick movement towards the door, but stopped short.

"Pis.h.!.+ I was surprised," he exclaimed, as the constable sprang in his way. "What do you want to do?"

"Take you, sir."

"What? Disgraced like this?" cried Rockley furiously.

"Colonel, you will not allow the insult to the regiment. Give your word that I will appear."

"I am helpless, sir," cried the old Colonel.

"Place me under arrest then, and let me appear in due time."

"I claim Major Rockley as my prisoner, sir," cried the constable stoutly. "I have a warrant in proper form, and my men waiting. This is not an ordinary case."

"Oh, very well," cried Rockley contemptuously; "I am ready. The charge is as ridiculous as it is disgraceful. I presume that I may return to my quarters, and tell my servant to pack up a few necessaries?"

"Of course; of course, Rockley," said the Colonel. "There can be no objection to this."

He looked at the constable as he spoke, but that individual made no reply. He placed himself by Rockley's side, and Sir Harry Payne went out with them.

"I don't believe it, Rockley," cried the latter. "Here, I'll stand by you to the end."

Rockley gave him a grim nod, glanced sharply round, and then strode out to his own quarters only a few yards away.

"Well, gentlemen," said the Colonel, looking from one to the other; "this is a most painful business for me. Mr Denville, as your father's son, I cannot blame you very much, but if you had been ten years older you would have acted differently."

"Colonel Lascelles," said Lord Carboro' coldly, "I do not see how Mr Morton Denville could have acted differently."

"I will not argue the point with you, my lord," said the Colonel. "May I ask you to--My G.o.d! What's that?"

It was a dull report, followed by the hurrying of feet, and the excitement that would ensue in a barrack at the discharge of fire-arms.

Before the Colonel could reach the door, it was thrown open, and Sir Harry Payne staggered in, white as ashes, and sank into a chair.

"Water!" he exclaimed. "I'm weak yet."

"What is it? Are you hurt?" cried the Colonel.

"No. Good heavens! how horrible," faltered the young man with a sob.

"Rockley!"

"Rockley?" cried Morton excitedly.

"He has blown out his brains!"

Volume Three, Chapter XXVII.

A LONG ADIEU.

Major Rockley's tacit acknowledgment of the truth of the charge against him, and the piecing together of the links, showed how, on the night of Lady Teigne's death, he had been absent from the mess for two hours, during which Fred Denville lay drunk in the officers' quarters--made drunk by the Major's contrivance, so that his uniform could be used.

How too, so as further to avert suspicion, the Major had the fiendish audacity to take the party to perform the serenade where the poor old votary of fas.h.i.+on lay dead.

The truth, so long in coming to the surface, prevailed at last, and Stuart Denville, broken and prostrated, found himself the idol of the crowd from Saltinville, who collected to see him freed from the county gaol.

"To the barracks, Claire," he whispered. "Let us get away from here."

They were at the princ.i.p.al hotel, and Claire was standing before him, pale and trembling with emotion.

"Your blessing and forgiveness first," she murmured. "Oh, father, that I could be so blind!"

"So blind?" he said tenderly, as he took her in his arms. "No: say so n.o.ble and so true. Did you not stand by me when you could not help believing me guilty, and I could not speak? But we are wasting time. I have sent word to poor Fred. My child, I have his forgiveness to ask for all the past."

They met the regimental surgeon as they drove up.

"You have come quickly," he said. "Did you get my message?"

"Your message?" cried Claire, turning pale. "Is--is he worse?"

The surgeon bowed his head.

"I had hopes when you were here last," he said gently; "but there has been an unfavourable turn. The poor fellow has been asking for you, Miss Denville; you had better come at once."

He led the way to the infirmary, where the finely-built, strong man lay on the simple pallet, his face telling its own tale more eloquently than words could have spoken it.

"Ah, little sister," he said feebly, as his face lit up with a happy smile. "I wanted you. You will not mind staying with me and talking.

Tell me," he continued, as Claire knelt down by his bed's head, "is it all true, or have they been saying I am innocent to make it easier--now I am going away?"

"No, no, Fred," said Claire; "it is true that you are quite innocent."

"Is this the truth?" he said feebly.

"The truth," whispered Claire; "and you must live--my brother--to help and protect me."

"No," he said sadly; "it is too late. I'm glad though that I did not kill the old woman. It seemed all a muddle. I was drunk that night.

Poor old dad! Can't they set him free?"

"My boy!--Fred!--can you forgive me?" cried Denville, bending over the face that gazed up vacantly in his.

"Who's that?" said the dying man sharply. "I can't see. Only you, Clairy--who's that? Father?"

"My son!--my boy! Fred, speak to me--forgive--"

There was a terrible silence in the room as the old man's piteous cry died out, and he sank upon his knees on the other side of the narrow bed, and laid his wrinkled forehead upon his son's breast.

"Forgive?--you, father?" said Fred at last, in tones that told how rapidly the little life remaining was ebbing away. "It's all right, sir--all a mistake--my life--one long blunder. Take care of Clairy here--and poor little May."

"My boy--the mistake has been mine," groaned Denville, "and I am punished for it now."