The Master of the Ceremonies Part 30

The Master of the Ceremonies saw him too, as he bowed to one, smiled upon a second, and took snuff with a third; and several times, as he watched the fisherman wading out there, he followed his movements attentively, and appeared to be gazing without his mask of artificiality.

The man's calm, dreamy ways seemed to have an attraction, as if he were wis.h.i.+ng that he could change places with him, and lead so simple and peaceful a life. And as he watched him, very far out now, d.i.c.k raised his net, emptied it, shook it with his back to the people, and then began to wade in quite another direction, going back no more to the ground off the pier.

The Master of the Ceremonies did not look himself that day, and twice over he found himself on the edge of the pier gazing out to sea, where everything seemed so peaceful and still.

There was a buzz of voices going on about him, but he heard nothing, till all at once a voice, quite familiar to him, exclaimed sharply:

"Well, what is it?"

"Message from Mr Barclay, sir."

"Well?"

"I took your note, sir, and he'll be glad to see you to-morrow morning at twelve."

"That will do. Now take the other."

Stuart Denville could not restrain himself as he heard those voices just behind, and it was as if some power had turned him sharply round to see Major Rockley in conversation with one of the private dragoons of his regiment.

The man had delivered his message to his master, and then turned stiffly to go, coming face to face with Denville, whose whole manner changed.

He turned deadly pale, of an unwholesome pallor, and then the blood seemed to flush to his face and head. His eyes flashed and his lips parted as if to speak, but the dragoon saluted, turned upon his heel, and strode away.

"Anything the matter, Denville?" said the Major, who had seen something of the encounter.

"Matter, matter," said the old man hoa.r.s.ely, and he now began to tremble violently. "No--no,--a little faint. You'll pardon me,--a chair,--a--"

The old man would have fallen, but the Major caught his arm and helped him to a seat, where a crowd of fas.h.i.+onables surrounded him, and did all they possibly could to prevent his recovery from his fit by keeping away every breath of air, and thrusting at him bottles of salts, vinaigrettes, and scents of every fas.h.i.+onable kind.

"What's the matter with the old fellow?" said the Major, as he twirled his moustache. "Could he have known about the note? Impossible; and if he had known, why should he turn faint? Bah! Absurd! The heat. He's little better than a shadow, after all."

Volume One, Chapter XXII.

A SURREPt.i.tIOUS VISITOR.

"Major Rockley's servant to see you, miss."

Claire started from her seat and looked at Footman Isaac with a troubled expression that was full of shame and dread.

She dropped her eyes on the instant as she thought of her position.

It was four o'clock, and the promenade on cliff and pier in full swing.

Her father would not be back for two hours, Morton was away somewhere, and it was so dreadful--so degrading--to be obliged to see her brother, the prodigal, in the servants' part of the house.

For herself she would not have cared, but it was lowering her brother; and, trying to be calm and firm, she said:

"Show him in here, Isaac."

"In here, miss?"

"Yes."

"Please ma'am, master said--"

"Show him in here, Isaac," said Claire, drawing herself up with her eyes flas.h.i.+ng, and the colour returning to her cheeks.

The footman backed out quickly, and directly after there was the clink of spurs, and a heavy tread. Then the door opened and closed, and Major Hockley's servant, James Bell, otherwise Fred Denville, strode into the room; and Isaac's retreating steps were heard.

"Fred!" cried Claire, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing the handsome bronzed face again and again.

"My darling girl!" he cried, holding her tightly to his breast, while his face lit up as he returned her caresses.

"Oh, Fred!" she said, as she laid her hands then upon his shoulders and gazed at him at arm's length, "you've been drinking."

"One half-pint of ale. That's all: upon my soul," he said. "I say, I wish it were not wicked to commit murder."

If he had by some blow paralysed her he could not have produced a greater change in her aspect, for her eyes grew wild and the colour faded out of her cheeks and lips.

"Don't look like that," he said, smiling. "I shan't do it--at least, not while I'm sober; but I should like to wring that supercilious scoundrel's neck. He looks down upon me in a way that is quite comical."

"Why did you come, dear?" said Claire sadly. "Oh, Fred, if I could but buy you out, so that you could begin life again."

"No good, my dear little girl," he said tenderly. "There's something wrong in my works. I've no stability, and I should only go wrong again."

"But, if you would try, Fred."

"Try, my pet!" he said fiercely; "Heaven knows how I did try, but the drink was too much for me. If we had been brought up to some honest way of making a living, and away from this sham, I might have been different, but it drove me to drink, and I never had any self-command.

I'm best where I am; obliged to be sober as the Major's servant."

There was a contemptuous look in his eyes as he said this last.

"And that makes it so much worse," sighed Claire with a sad smile. "If you were only the King's servant--a soldier--I would not so much mind."

"Perhaps it is best as it is," he said sternly.

"Don't say that, Fred dear."

"But I do say it, girl. If I had been brought up differently--Bah! I didn't come here to grumble about the old man."

"No, no, pray, pray don't. And, Fred dear, you must not stop. Do you want a little money?"

"Yes!" he cried eagerly. "No! Curse it all, girl, I wish you would not tempt me. So you are not glad to see me?"

"Indeed, yes, Fred; but you must not stay. If our father were to return there would be such a scene."

"He will not. He is on the pier, and won't be back these two hours.

Where's Morton?"

"Out, dear."