The Master of the Ceremonies

“By the way, what time did Mr Denville come back to his quarters?”

“Two o’clock, sir.”

“With whom had he been?”

“Sir Matthew Bray, sir. Lady Drelincourt’s, I think.”

“Humph! Now, look here; can I trust you, Bell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’m going to give you a delicate bit of business to do for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you do it well, I shall give you a clean slate to begin again, and wipe off that last report.”

“Thankye, sir.”

“I cannot – at least I do not wish to – be seen in the business preparations, so I trust to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go directly then, to Moggridge’s, and arrange for a post-chaise and four to be at Prince’s Road to-night at – say eleven – no; half-past ten.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pick good fast horses. Pack a light valise with a change; put my pistols in the pockets of the carriage, and you will be there ready to see me off. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s – well, to be plain with you – a lady in the case.”

“I see, sir.”

“And, mind this; after we have started, you stay behind, and if there is any inquiry directly after, you volunteer information, and say we have taken the London Road. You understand?”

“Quite, sir.”

“There’s a sovereign for you. No: you’ll get drunk if I give it you now. I’ll give you five when I come back.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And mind, if I am wanted, I am unwell in bed. I want a good start.”

“I see, sir. You may depend on me. But what house, sir, in Prince’s Road?”

“You’ll see, blockhead. The one that is lighted up. Mrs Pontardent’s.”

Major Rockley’s regimental servant saluted, turned upon his heel, and went out muttering “Scoundrel!” between his teeth. “I wonder who the lady is?”

“I wouldn’t change places with you, my fine fellow,” he muttered, as he went across the parade ground; and, turning a corner, he came suddenly upon Sir Harry Payne, Sir Matthew Bray, and the new cornet, who flushed scarlet, as he saw the dragoon.

James Bell saluted, and was passing, but Sir Harry Payne stopped him, and Cornet Denville said hastily:

“I’ve left my cigar-case. Join you directly.”

He went away quickly, and Sir Harry Payne said:

“Where are you going, Bell?”

“Major’s washerwoman, sir,” said the dragoon promptly.

“Then you can call at River’s for me. Half a dozen pairs of white kid gloves. He knows my size. Shall he get you some, Matt?”

“No; not going.”

“Isn’t she going?”

“No.”

“Never mind; you’d better come. Denville’s pretty sister will be there.”

“Phew! Will she?” said Sir Matthew, whistling. “I say, mind what you’re about. There may be a row.”

“Not there. I shan’t notice her; and if I did, Denville’s all right. We’re the best of friends now.”

“But are you sure she’s coming?”

“Pontardent told me herself. She came round the old man.”

“Then I will come. Order me some gloves, Harry. I’ve no change.”

“You never do have any. Here! Tell them to send half a dozen pairs for Sir Matthew, and put them down to me. What’s the matter with your lip?”

“My lip, sir?”

“Yes; it’s bleeding.”

“Cracked, sir.”

“Yes: fevered. Drink too much. That will do. Nines, or tens – the gloves?”

“No, no: eights,” cried Sir Matthew; and the dragoon went on out of the barrack gates, with his face growing grey.

“This is being a soldier,” he muttered. “The scoundrel! If I thrash him till he can’t move, they’ll shoot me. But no, it can’t be. She’s too good a girl. Impossible. Besides, I shall be there.”

He went straight to the livery-stable keeper, and arranged for the best four horses he had, and gave the man a hint.

“Very private, you know.”

“Right, my lad. I know what the Major is. Here’s half-a-crown for you to get a glass.”

“Thank ye.”

James Bell pocketed the coin, and went off back to pack his master’s valise, and load the case of pistols ready to take to the chaise in the evening, after which he went to have one half-pint of ale, for he was suffering from a severe sensation of thirst, one that he often felt come on.

“Just one glass,” he said. “That’s all.”

James Bell partook of his one glass, but it was not all. Then he went back to see to the horses in his charge in a stable near the barracks – two belonging to the Major, and one of the Colonel’s.

The helper was there, and as the extra work would fall to his share that night, there was an excuse for giving him a glass of ale, of which he partook, nothing loth.

The message of Sir Harry Payne had been given, the clothes were packed up, the pistols ready. Yes, every thing had been done; and at last, when it was getting dark, James Bell, looking very stern and determined, and with a tendency to walk extremely straight, as if he were aiming at something right ahead, went off to Moggridge’s, placed the packed valise under the seat of the post-chaise, the pistols in the pockets, and then had a chat with the postboys, and – a glass of ale.

There was an hour yet to the time, so he strolled to the end of the yard, and thought he would just go as far as the stables to see if the helper had properly bedded down the horses; and this proving to be the case, and a shilling still remaining unspent of that half-crown, the dragoon suggested that a pot of the best ale should be fetched, and that they should drink it before he went.

The helper was worthy of his title, and fetched the ale, and then, one seated on a truss of straw, the other upon the corn-bin, the two men finished the ale between them, and just at the time that James Bell should have been at Mrs Pontardent’s gate, he was fast asleep in the stable.

That afternoon Mr Barclay was busy with his partner, when a visitor was announced, and as it was probably a call relating to money matters, Mrs Barclay left the room.

“Oh, it’s you, Moggridge,” said Barclay gruffly. “You don’t want money, I’m sure.”

“Thank ye, no, Mr Barclay, sir,” said the visitor, a closely shaven, sharp-faced man, with bow legs. “Things is moving, sir. I’m doing tidy;” and he went on chewing a piece of clover hay, which he had between his lips.

“What do you want then?”

“Well, you know what you said, sir, after the Hon. Tom Badgley went off that night, and dodged the sheriff’s officers; and you know what I promised you.”

“Who’s going now?”

“Major Rockley, sir.”

“The deuce! Alone?”

“No, sir. I think there’s a lady in the case.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know, sir. Take up at Mrs Pontardent’s party; half arter ten.”

“Thank ye, Moggridge. What’ll you take?”

“Well, sir, champagne’s a thing as don’t often come in my way, and – ”

“Come along,” said Barclay, and Mr Moggridge’s desires were satisfied.

“Not a bolt!” said Barclay to himself. “Who’s the woman? Well, I don’t want him to go. If he goes off he won’t meet my bill. He must be stopped, but how?”

He stood thinking for a few minutes, and then sat down and wrote a letter which he took out, and picking a boy from the idlers on the cliff, sent it to its destination.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty One.

A Walk and a Drive

Richard Linnell found a good deal of relief in his restless state of mind in taking long country walks, telling himself that he got away from his thoughts; but, on the contrary, he thought the more, and enjoyed his misery as some young men do whose love affairs go crooked.

He was about nine miles away from Saltinville on the day of Mrs Pontardent’s party, and rapidly increasing the distance, when he suddenly became aware of the sound of wheels behind in the road, and looking round as he gave place to the driver, he found that Cora Dean was checking her ponies.

“Confound her! she has followed me,” he said to himself, as she drew up by his side, quite alone, for the little seat generally occupied by the boy-groom was turned over and closed.

“This is unexpected, Mr Linnell,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. “I thought you were at home.”

“I felt sure you were,” he said, smiling.

“Why?”

The question was accompanied by a half resentful, half tender look, the first intended, the latter not.

“I expected that you would be busy with hair-dressers and dressmakers, preparing for to-night’s battle.”

“To-night’s battle?”

“Yes,” he said, in a bantering, reckless way that was new to him, “the battle with the beaux whom you are going to slay.”

He felt as if he could have bitten his tongue off the next moment, as he saw the look of pain she gave him.

“What have I done?” she said in a soft, low, half-passionate tone.

“Done! What do you mean?”

“Why do you take pleasure in laughing at me and mocking me?”

“Oh, nonsense!” he cried. “I was only speaking lightly.”

“Why should you speak lightly to me?” she said. “We have lived in the same house now for over a year, and, instead of being neighbours and friends, there always seems to be a great gap between us.”

“Why, what a sentimental view you take of things,” he said. “We shake hands when we meet. We smile at one another, and nod and chat.”

“Yes,” she said sadly, “we shake hands, we smile at each other, we nod and chat, but – ”

She stopped and seemed to try and command herself; and, to his great relief, she spoke lightly as she said:

“I shall see you to-night, of course?”

“No; I thought you were going to a party.”

“Yes, but you will be there?”

“No,” he said gravely; “I am not going.”

“Not going!” she cried. “Why, you were asked.”

“How do you know?”

She turned crimson, and avoided his searching look.

“Did Mrs Pontardent tell you?”

“Yes, and you will go?”

“No,” he said; “I declined. Why was I asked – do you know?”

She darted an appealing look at him; and the haughty, self-assertive woman seemed to be completely changed.

“Don’t – don’t be angry with me,” she said. “I – I thought it would be so pleasant if you were going to be there.”

“You never asked that woman to invite me, Miss Dean?”

She did not speak, but her face began to work, her hands dropped in her lap, her head drooped upon her chest, and she wept bitterly.

“Oh, Miss Dean, for heaven’s sake don’t do that,” he said. “I hate to see a woman cry. I can’t bear it. Pray forgive me if I spoke harshly. I could not help feeling annoyed that you should have done this.”

“You ought to be grateful,” she cried passionately. “The woman you love so dearly will be there with gay Major Rockley – oh, Mr Linnell – Richard – for heaven’s sake forgive me. What have I said – what have I done?”

In her alarm at the start he gave, and at his ghastly face, she let fall the reins and caught at his arm, when the ponies, feeling their heads free, dashed off; but this brought Linnell back to the present, and with one bound he reached the rein, hung on to it, and was dragged along for a few yards, turning the ponies’ heads towards a steep bank by the side of the narrow unfrequented road. The result would have been that he would have been crushed between the chaise and the bank, but for Cora’s presence of mind in seizing the other rein and dragging at it with all her might.

As it was, he received a violent kick which turned him sick and faint, and when he came to, the ponies’ reins were secured to a tree in the hedge, and he was lying upon the grass, with Cora’s arm supporting his head, and her frightened face bending over him.

“What is it?” he cried sharply. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said softly. “Don’t move. How brave you are!”

He looked at her wonderingly, and then flushing once more, he recalled the whole scene, and what led to it.

“I was afraid you were hurt,” he said, trying to rise; but the giddy feeling came back, and he sank down again.

“You are hurt,” she cried. “What shall I do? Richard – dear Richard! He’s dying. Oh, my love – my love!”

“Hush!” he cried huskily, as she was raising his head in her arms; “for God’s sake don’t speak to me like that. There – there – you see I am better. The pony kicked me. It made my head swim. There,” he cried, rising to his knees, “you see it is all right. I quite frightened you.”

He stood up now and offered her his hand to rise; but she did not take it, for she covered her face with her hands and crouched lower and lower on her knees, sobbing wildly in a passion of grief, for his words had been as cold and distant as if they had been strangers.

“Miss Dean – Miss Dean – pray let me help you to your carriage,” he said; but she shrank from him.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried bitterly; “you made me love you – you made me disgrace myself like this, and now I am to be your laughing-stock and scorn.” She looked up at him with her eyes full of rage, which died out on the instant as she cried to him wildly, “I wish you had let me drown!”

He stood looking at her for a few moments, and then glanced along the winding lane; but they were quite alone. Then, taking her hand, he made her rise, for she submitted to his will without a trace of resistance.

“I am very sorry,” he said at last simply.

“Sorry!” she cried angrily. “Oh, why am I such a mad fool? Why did I betray myself like this?”

“Hush!” he said softly, as he held her hand between both of his; “listen to me. Do you think I have not seen for long enough that you are beautiful, and that – ”

“How dare you?” she cried fiercely. “It is not true.”

“You must hear me,” he said; “and forgive my awkwardness for speaking as I do. You know my story so well: have I not always been steadfast to that love?”

She sobbed violently and tried to snatch away her hand, but he held it firmly.

“I have always tried to be to you as a friend. Heaven knows I would not have wounded you like this.”

“Yes,” she sobbed bitterly, “Heaven knows.”

“Why did you stab me with those cruel words?” he cried resentfully.

“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I was mad. It makes me mad to see you go on worshipping her as you do. Does she make you love and hate her too, as she does me?”

“Hush – hush!” he said quickly. “I want to like and respect you, Cora Dean.”

“Like! Respect!” she cried, with a flash of her former rage. “Why have I degraded myself like this?”

“Do you not trust me?” he said gently, as he looked in her eyes. “Do you think I should be such a despicable coward as ever to whisper word of this to a soul? Come,” he said, with a frank smile, “we have both been unfortunate. Let us be friends.”

“Friends?” she cried. “No; a woman never forgives a slight like this. Do you think I could?”

“Yes,” he said, after a few moments’ pause. “You hate me, and are bitter against me now; but when you have grown calm you will respect me, I am sure. Cora,” he cried, with an outburst as excited as her own, “there is no such thing as love or truth on earth. I – Bah! What am I saying?” he cried, checking himself. “Come, we are friends. Let me help you to your place again.”

He offered his hand once more, but she struck it aside, and went to the ponies’ heads while he tried to forestall her, but had to catch at the side of the chaise to save himself a fall.

Her anger was gone on the instant as she saw his face contract with pain, and in a moment she was by his side.

“It is my turn to triumph,” she said in a deep, low tone. “Richard Linnell, you must trust to the woman you despise I shall have to drive you home.”

He tried to master the pain, but he could not; and, with a deprecating smile, he had to confess his weakness, and accept a seat back to Saltinville, for it was impossible to walk.

It was a triumph, Cora Dean saw, as she sat up proud and stately beside him; and she felt her heart glow as they reached the town, and scores of promenaders noted him seated by her side; but it was not a pleasant drive home, all the same.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Two.

Linnell Changes his Mind

“Getting cured then, Dick?” said Colonel Mellersh grimly, as Richard limped into the room after finding a note in his own place, which his father said had been brought by a boy.

“Cured? Look, I am quite lame. One of Miss Dean’s ponies kicked me; but it will only be a bruise.”

“Humph! How convenient!” said the Colonel, with a grim look.

“Don’t laugh at me,” said Linnell quickly. “I could not help myself.”

“That’s what we all say when we fall victims to fascination.”

“Mellersh, pray stop this banter. You refused Mrs Pontardent’s invitation for yourself and me?”

“I did.”

“I want you to ask her pardon, and get the invitations for us. I must get there to-night.”

“Because Miss Cora Dean, your beautiful charioteer, will be there?”

“No!” fiercely.

“Why, then, most impressionable youth?”

“Because – must I tell you?”

“Yes, if you wish me to act,” said the Colonel sternly.

“Because Claire Denville will be there.”

“Good heavens! that old fop is never going to take that girl?”

“He is.”

“Pooh! What am I saying?” cried the Colonel, half laughingly. “Well, what of it? Why do you want to go?”

“Look.”

Linnell held out the note he had found in his room, and Mellersh read it.

“Rockley – post-horses – for the London Road. Who sent this, Dick?”

“I don’t know.”

“It may be a trick.”

“Who would trick me like that? And what for?”

Mellersh remained silent for a few minutes, and then he said gravely:

“Well, Dick, suppose it is so. Surely you are going to awake from this madness now?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does this letter mean? It is plain enough. Constant sapping has carried the fortress, and the lady has consented.”

“Don’t talk like that, Mellersh. For heaven’s sake, don’t take that cynical tone.”

“Why not, madman? I have heard tell that women often say no when they mean yes. A lady we know must have meant yes. Hang it, boy, what more proof do you want that the woman is unworthy of your love?”

“None,” said Linnell bitterly; “none, but I love her all the same.”

“Nonsense! Be a man.”

“I am a man,” cried Linnell furiously, “too much of a man to see the woman I love suffer for her weakness when I can stretch out a hand to save her. That hand I can stretch out, and I will. Now, will you help me?”

“To the death, Dick. I abhor your folly, but there is so much true chivalry in it that I’ll help you with all my heart.”

“I knew you would,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Write at once and get the invitations.”

“Pish!” said Mellersh contemptuously. “Don’t trouble yourself, my boy. I have only to walk in at Madame Pontardent’s door with any friend I like to take. Ah, I wonder how many hundred pounds I have won in that house!”

Linnell was walking up and down the room when the strains of music heard across the hall ceased; and directly after old Mr Linnell’s pleasant, grave head was thrust into the room.

“Another letter for you, Dick, my son. Just come.”

He held it out, nodded to both, and went back to his room, when the violin was heard again.

“Strange hand,” said Richard, opening it quickly.

“Good God!”

“What’s the matter?” cried Richard, as he heard his friend’s exclamation – saw his start.

“What has Miss Clode to say to you?” said Mellersh huskily.

“Miss Clode? This is not from Miss Clode. Look – no, I cannot show you,” cried Richard excitedly. “Yes, I will; I keep nothing from you.”

Mellersh glanced at the note which had been delivered by hand. It was anonymous, and only contained these words:

“If Mr Richard Linnell wishes for further proof of the unworthiness of a certain lady, let him visit Mrs Pontardent’s to-night.”

“That cannot be from Miss Clode,” said Richard, as he saw his friend’s face resume its cynical calm.

“Possibly not. Of course not. Why should she write to you? Well, Dick, we’ll go and see the affair to-night; but what do you mean to do?”

“Act according to circumstances. At any rate stop this wretched business.”

“Good,” said Mellersh. “I’m with you, Dick; but if it comes to a meeting this time, let me take the initiative. I should like to stand in front of Rockley some morning. The man irritates me, and I am in his debt.”

“What, money?”

“No; I want to pay back a few insults thrown at me over the tables now and then.”

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Three.

An Exacting Guest

Mrs Pontardent was a lady of a class who prospered well in the days when George the Third was king, and fashionable men considered it the correct thing to ruin themselves at cards wherever the tables were opened for the purpose. If you go to an auction sale now, in out-of-the-way places, there are sure to be card-tables in the catalogue; but if you furnish newly, your eyes rarely light upon green baize-lined tables exhibited for sale.

There were several at Mrs Pontardent’s handsomely-furnished detached house in Prince’s Road, where it stood back in fairly extensive grounds. In fact, it was, after Lord Carboro’s, one of the best houses close to Saltinville.

There were plenty of carriages waiting about in the road that night – so many along by the garden wall that Major Rockley found it necessary to alter his plans, for a post-chaise and four was likely to attract attention, and its postboys might be the objects of a good deal of ribald jest if they were close up with the servants of the private carriages.

To meet this difficulty, not being able to find his servant, he went round himself to the livery-stables, feed the postboys, and gave them instructions to wait in the back lane close by the door in the wall at the north side of the garden.

That door was only unlocked when the gardener was receiving fresh soil, plants or pots, or found it necessary to go out for a quiet refresher in the heat of the day; but after an interview and the offer of a golden key, the gardener thought it possible that the door might be left open that night.

Mrs Pontardent lived in style, and her rooms deserved the title of saloons, draped as they were with amber satin, and bright with wax candles, whose light was reflected from many girandoles.

The drawing-room windows opened on to a well-kept lawn; there were bosky walks; a terrace from which the glittering sea was visible; and in the saloons and about the garden a large and brilliant company was assembled.

The Barclays were there, for Barclay was everybody’s banker, and a necessity. The Deans arrived early, and Cora looked handsomer than ever. In fact, the officers of the dragoon regiment, as they saw her go up and speak to Claire, declared that they were the most perfect blonde and brunette that the world had ever seen. But then Mrs Pontardent’s wines were excellent, and it was acknowledged that it was a guest’s own fault if he did not have enough.

Tea, coffee, ices, and sandwiches at various buffets were spread as a matter of course, but the servants who waited there had a light time compared with that of the butler and his aid.

The Master of the Ceremonies had arrived early with his daughter, whom Mrs Pontardent kissed affectionately, and called “My dear child,” and then her father was obliged to leave her, as he had so many duties to perform, receiving guests and introducing them to the hostess as if it were a royal ball; getting couples ready for the dances that went on to the strains of a string band in a very languid way, and finding places for elderly ladies at the card-tables, as opportunity served.

As soon as she could, Claire found a refuge by the side of Mrs Barclay; but her hand was much sought after by dancers brought up from time to time by her father, and every time she trembled lest one of those present should offer himself as a partner.

But, though Major Rockley was there, and had spoken to her gravely once, and bowed on two other occasions as he passed her, he had made no other advance; and when Richard Linnell arrived he did not attempt to speak, but passed her arm-in-arm with Colonel Mellersh, bowing coldly, and giving her one stern, severe look that made her draw her breath once with a catch, and then feel a glow of resentment.

Cora came and sat down once by her side, to be by turns loving and spiteful, as if her temper was not under command; but they were soon separated, for Cora’s hand was also much sought after for the various dances.

The evening was less trying than Claire had anticipated. She had come prepared to meet with several slights from the ladies present, but, somehow, the only one who openly treated her with discourtesy was Lady Drelincourt, who gave her the cut direct in a most offensive way, as she passed on Morton Denville’s arm.