The Master of the Ceremonies Part 132

"Now, look here," said Barclay in a low voice, in obedience to his wife's request, but speaking quickly, "I've been bitten pretty heavily by the fellows in the regiment that has just gone, so if it's any new plan of yours that means money, you may stop it, for not a s.h.i.+lling do you get from me. There!"

"And at your time of life, too! To tell such fibs, Jo-si-ah! Just as if I didn't know that you've made a profit of Sir Harry Payne alone, enough to cover all your losses. Now, look here: I don't like little Mrs Burnett, or Gravani, or whatever her name is, but seeing how she's left alone in the world, and n.o.body's wife after all, and poor Mr Denville is poor Mr Denville, and it's a tax upon him, and you're out so much, I've been thinking, I say--"

"Wouldn't do, old lady. She's not the woman who would make our home comfortable; and besides--"

"But she's so different, Jo-si-ah, since she has been getting nearly well."

"Glad of it, old lady. Hope she'll keep so. But you forget that Claire will soon be leaving home, and--"

"What a stupid old woman I am, Jo-si-ah! Why, of course! Her place is there along with her father; and it's wonderful how he pets that little child. There now, I'm sure they've had long enough. Let's go in and tell them the news."

This time Mrs Barclay tapped at the door softly, before opening it half an inch and saying:

"May we come in?"

Her answer was the door flung wide, and Claire's arms round her neck.

"We've come to tell you that we've just seen Lord Carboro', my dear, and he told us that he'd heard about your brother from the Colonel of his new regiment, out in Gibraltar, and that he's getting on as well as can be."

Volume Three, Chapter XXIX.

A TALE THAT IS TOLD.

It was just such a visit that Mrs Barclay paid Claire Denville about a fortnight later; and after one of her extremely warm embraces, she exclaimed: "Guess."

"Guess what, Mrs Barclay?"

"Who's married. There, you needn't blush, my dear, because yours is fixed all right at last, but you'll never guess who."

"Then tell me," said Claire, smiling. "No, guess."

"I cannot. There are so many."

"Then I will tell you. No, no: you're too late," she cried, as Richard Linnell hurriedly entered; "I've brought the news."

"You've told her then that Cora Dean is married?"

"Now what a shame, Mr Richard," cried Mrs Barclay. "I hadn't time to say it, but I was just going to tell her. But she doesn't know who to, and I will tell her that. Colonel Mellersh, my dear."

"Colonel Mellers.h.!.+" cried Claire.

"Yes," said Richard Linnell. "I have just received this from him. A message from them both."

Claire opened her lips to speak, but her eyes fell upon Richard Linnell's thoughtful face, and it was he who spoke next, and said slowly:

"No: now I come to think of it all, I am not surprised."

Of course, Saltinville talked a great deal about this match, but the worthies of the place talked more about another wedding that took place six months later--a wedding at which Lord Carboro' insisted upon being the bridegroom's best man.

It was upon that occasion, after returning from the church, that Lord Carboro' took a casket from his pocket and placed it in Claire's hands.

"The old jewels, my dear, that I have prized because you refused them once before. G.o.d bless you! and I know He will."

The old man turned quickly away with his face working, and crossed to the Master of the Ceremonies, who was looking very much his old self, in his meagrely furnished drawing-room, and tapped him half angrily upon the shoulder.

"Hang it all, Denville," he cried, "can't you see I've forgotten my snuff-box, and am dying for a pinch? The old box, sir--His Royal Highness's box. Hah! That's better," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, after dipping his thin white finger and thumb in the chased gold box, "a friend at a pinch, eh, Denville, eh? Damme, sir, your young wits and beaux don't often beat that, eh? The old school's pa.s.sing away, Denville, eh?

pa.s.sing away."

"With the n.o.blemen who are your lords.h.i.+p's contemporaries."

"Tut-tut-tut! Denville, don't. Never mind the lords.h.i.+p. We must be better friends, man--better friends for our little f.a.g ends of troubled lives. Hus.h.!.+ No more now. This is the bride and bridegroom's day."

There were many strangers who, visiting Saltinville, were ready to smile at the tottering white-haired beau, so elaborately dressed, and who, not from need, but from custom, clung to his old habits and received visitors as Master of the Ceremonies still. It was a quaint old fiction, and he used to glory in his fees, now they were only wanted for a purpose he had in view.

There were other laughs too ready to be bestowed upon the palsied old n.o.bleman in the dark wig, who met the Master of the Ceremonies every morning on the Parade, and took snuff with him as they flourished their canes, and flicked away fancied spots of dust. Their high collars and pantaloons and Hessian boots, all came in for notice. So did those wonderful beaver hats, black for winter, white for summer, which were lifted with such a display of deportment, in return to the salutes of those who were taking the air. It was always the same: they met at the same hour, at the same spot, took snuff, chatted upon the same themes, and then strolled down to the end of the pier talking of how "times have changed, sir: times have changed."

"Who's him, sir--old chap in the black wig, and a face like a wooden nut-cracker? Oh, he's old Lord Carboro'."

"And the other?" said the stranger, who had been questioning Fisherman d.i.c.k, as the old men pa.s.sed them by.

"T'other, sir? Ah, I could tell you a deal about him. That's the Master o' the Ceremonies, that is. I could tell you a long story about he."

And so he did.

THE END.