The Master of the Ceremonies Part 13

There was a hurried opening of the circle, and Stuart Denville, Esquire, Master of the Ceremonies, struck a fresh att.i.tude full of astonishment, but, like the rest of the well-dressed throng, he shrank away, as a tall, fair youth, dripping with water, which made his hair and clothes cling closely, came from an opening that led to the piles below, squeezing the pug to free him from moisture, and gazing from face to face.

"You rascally prodigal!" whispered the Master of the Ceremonies, as the youth came abreast, "you've been fis.h.i.+ng for dabs again!"

"Well, suppose I have," said the youth sulkily.

"Where is his preserver? Give me back my darling t.i.ti," wailed Lady Drelincourt; and catching the wet fat dog to her breast, regardless of the effect upon her rich black silk dress and c.r.a.pe, the little beast uttered a satisfied yelp and nestled up to her, making a fat jump upwards so as to lick a little of the red off the lady's lips.

"And who was it saved you, my precious?" sobbed the lady.

"Lady Drelincourt," said the Master of the Ceremonies, taking the youth's hand gingerly, with one glove, "allow me to introduce your dear pet's preserver--it was Morton Denville, Lady Drelincourt, my son. I am sorry he is so very wet."

"Bless you--bless you!" cried Lady Drelincourt with effusion. "I could embrace you, you brave and gallant man, but--but--not now."

"No, no--not now. Lady Drelincourt, let me a.s.sist you to your chair.

Morton," he whispered, "you're like a scarecrow: quick, be off. You dog, if you mind me now, your fortune's made."

"Oh, is it, father? Well, I'm precious glad. I say, isn't it cold?"

"Yes: quick--home, and change your things. Stop; where are you going?"

"Down below, to fetch the dabs."

"d.a.m.n the dabs, sir," whispered the Master of the Ceremonies excitedly; "you'll spoil the effect. Run, sir, run!"

The youth hesitated a moment and then started and ran swiftly towards the cliff, amidst a shrill burst of cheers, the ladies fluttering their handkerchiefs, and fisherman d.i.c.k Miggles wis.h.i.+ng he had been that there boy.

"Denville--dear Denville," said her ladys.h.i.+p, "how proud you must be of such a son!"

"The idol of my life, dear Lady Drelincourt," said the Master of the Ceremonies, arranging her dress in the bath-chair. "Shall I carry the poor dog?"

"No, no--no, no, my darling t.i.ti!" cried the lady, to his great relief.

"Thomas, take me home quickly," she said, as the wet dog nestled in her c.r.a.pe lap and uttered a few snuffles of satisfaction. "Quick, or t.i.ti will take cold Denville, see me safely home. My nerves are gone."

"The shock, of course."

"Yes, Denville, and I shall never forget your gallant son," sobbed her ladys.h.i.+p hysterically, as they pa.s.sed through a lane of promenaders; "but I must not cry."

It was indeed quite evident that such a giving way to natural feeling would have had serious results, and she was not veiled. So the rising tear was sent back, and Denville saw her safely home, forgetting for the moment his domestic troubles in his exultation, and making out a future for his son, as the rich Lady Drelincourt's protege--a commission--a handsome allowance. Perhaps--ah, who knew! Such unions had taken place before now.

For the next half-hour he was living artificially, seeing his son advanced in life, and his daughter dwelling in a kind of fairy castle that had been raised through Lady Drelincourt's introduction.

Then as he approached home a black cloud seemed to come down and close him in, the artificiality was gone, age seemed to be attacking him, and he moaned as he reached the door.

"Heaven help me, and give me strength to keep up this actor's life, for I'm very, very weak."

Volume One, Chapter XI.

THE OPENING OF A VEIN.

"Well, young Denville," said d.i.c.k Miggles, the great swarthy fisherman, whose black hair, dark eyes, and aquiline features told that his name was a corruption of Miguel, and that he was a descendant of one of the unfortunates who had been wrecked and imprisoned when the Spanish Armada came to grief, and had finally resolved to "remain an Englishman."

d.i.c.k Miggles rarely did anything in the daytime but doze and smoke. Of course, he ate and drank, and, as on the present occasion, nursed the little girl that Mrs Miggles, who was as round and snub and English of aspect as her lord was Spanish, had placed in his arms. At night matters were different, and people did say--but never mind.

"Well, young Denville," said Fisherman d.i.c.k, as he sat on the bench outside his whitewashed cottage with the whelk-sh.e.l.l path, bordered with marigold beds, one of which flowers he picked from time to time to give the child.

"Well, d.i.c.k, where are my dabs?"

"Haw-haw," said the fisherman, laughing. "I say, missus, where's them dabs?"

Mrs Miggles was was.h.i.+ng up the dinner things, and she came out with a dish on which were a number of fried heads and tails, with a variety of spinal and other bones.

"What a shame!" cried Morton, with a look of disgust. "I do call that shabby, d.i.c.k."

"How was I to know that you would come after 'em, lad? I'd ha' brote 'em, but I don't like to come to your house now."

"I say, d.i.c.k, don't be a fool," cried the lad. "What's the good of raking up that horrid affair, now it's all dead and buried?"

"Nay," said d.i.c.k, shaking his head. "That ar'n't all dead and buried, like the old woman, my lad. There's more trouble to come out o' that business yet."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense!"

"Nay, it isn't, my lad. Anyhow, I don't like coming to your place now, and there's other reasons as well, ar'n't there, missus?"

"Now, I do call that shabby, d.i.c.k. Just because there's a bill owing for fish. I've told you I'll pay it some day, if papa does not; I mean, when I have some money."

"Ay, so you did, lad, and so you will, I know; but I didn't mean that, did I, missus?"

"No," came from within.

"What did you mean, then?"

"Never mind. You wait and see. I say, the old gentleman looks as if he'd got over the trouble, Master Morton. He was quite spry to-day."

"No, he hasn't," said Morton. "It's quite horrible at home. He's ill, and never hardly speaks, and my sister frets all day long."

"Do she though! Poor gal! Ah, she wants it found out, my lad. It wherrits her, because you see it's just as if them jools of the old lady's hung like to your folk, and you'd got to account for 'em."

"Get out! Why, what nonsense, d.i.c.k."

"What, dropped it agen, my pretty?" said the great fisherman, stooping to pick up a flower, and place it in the little fat hand that was playing with his big rough finger. "Ah, well, perhaps it be, but never mind. I say, though, the old gentleman looked quite hisself agen. My!

he do go dandy-jacking along the cliff, more'n the best of 'em. He do make me laugh, he do. Why, h.e.l.lo, Master Morton, lad, what's matter?"

"If you dare to laugh at my father, d.i.c.k," cried the boy, whose face was flushed and eyes flas.h.i.+ng, "big as you are, I'll punch your head."

"Naw, naw, naw, don't do that, my lad," said the fisherman, growing solemn directly. "I were not laughing at him. I were laughing at his clothes."

"And if my father dresses like the Prince and the Duke and all the fas.h.i.+onable gentlemen, what is there to laugh at then? Suppose I were to laugh at you for living in that great pair of trousers that come right up under your arms?"

"Well, you might, lad, and welcome; they're very comf'table. P'r'aps you'd like to laugh at my boots. Haw, haw, haw, Master Morton, what d'yer think I did yes'day? I took little flower here, after missus had washed her, and put her right into one o' my boots, and she stood up in it with her head and arms out, laughing and crowing a good 'un. Ar'n't she a little beauty?"