The Master of the Ceremonies Part 32

"Mr Morton at home, Isaac?" he said, with a slightly-affected drawl.

"No, sir; been out hours."

"Not gone fis.h.i.+ng, Isaac?"

"No, sir; I think Mr Morton's gone up to the barracks, sir. Said he should be back to dinner, sir."

"That is right, Isaac. That is right. I think I will go for a little promenade before dinner myself."

"He's a rum 'un," muttered the footman as he stood behind the curtain on one side of the window; "anyone would think we were all as happy as the day's long here, when all the time the place is chock full of horrors, and if I was to speak--"

Isaac did not finish his sentence, but remained watching the Master of the Ceremonies with his careful mincing step till he was out of sight, when the footman turned from the window to stand tapping the dining-table with his finger tips.

"If I was to go, there'd be a regular wreck, and I shouldn't get a penny of my back wages. If I stay, he may get them two well married, and then there'd be money in the house. Better stay. Lor', if people only knew all I could tell 'em about this house, and the sc.r.a.ping, and putting off bills, and the troubles with Miss May and the two boys, and--"

Isaac drew a long breath and turned rather white.

"I feel sometimes as if I ought to make a clean breast of it, but I don't like to. He isn't such a bad sort, when you come to know him, but that--ugh!"

He shuddered, and began to rattle the knives and forks upon the table, giving one a rub now and then on his shabby livery.

"It's a puzzler," he said, stopping short, after breathing in a gla.s.s, and giving it a rub with a cloth. "Some day, I suppose, there'll be a difference, and he'll be flush of money. I suppose he daren't start yet. Suppose I--No; that wouldn't do. He'll pay all the back, then, and I might--"

Isaac shuddered again, and muttered to himself in a very mysterious way.

Then, all at once:

"Why, I might cry halves, and make him set me up for life. Why not?

She was good as gone, and--"

He set down the gla.s.s, and wiped the dew that had gathered off his brow, looking whiter than before, for just then a memory had come into Isaac's mental vision--it was a horrible recollection of having been tempted to go and see the execution of a murderer at the county town, and this man's accomplice was executed a month later.

"Accomplice" was an ugly word that seemed to force itself into Isaac's mind, and he shook his head and hurriedly finished laying the cloth.

"Let him pay me my wages, all back arrears," he said. "Perhaps there is a way of selling a secret without being an accomplice, but I don't know, and--oh, I couldn't do it. It would kill that poor girl, who's about worried to death with the dreadful business, without there being anything else."

Volume One, Chapter XXIV.

PRESSED FOR MONEY.

As a rule, a tailor is one who will give unlimited credit so long as his client is a man of society, with expectations, and the maker of garments can charge his own prices; but Stuart Denville, Esq, MC, of Saltinville, paid a visit to his tailor to find that gentleman inexorable.

"No, Mr Denville, sir, it ain't to be done. I should be glad to fit out the young man, as he should be fitted out as a gentleman, sir; but there is bounds to everything."

"Exactly, my dear Mr Ping, but I can a.s.sure you that before long both his and my accounts shall be paid."

"No, sir, can't do it. I'm very busy, too. Why not try Crowder and Son?"

"My dee-ar Mr Ping--you'll pardon me? I ask you as a man, as an artist in your profession, could I see my son--my heir--a gentleman who I hope some day will make a brilliant match--a young man who is going at once into the best of society--could I now, Mr Ping, see that youth in a suit of clothes made by Crowder and Son? Refuse my appeal, if you please, my dear sir, but--you'll pardon me--do not add insult to the injury."

Mr Ping was mollified, and rubbed his hands softly. This was flattering: for Crowder and Son, according to his view of the case, did not deserve to be called tailors--certainly not gentlemen's tailors; but he remained firm.

"No, Mr Denville, sir, far be it from me to wish to insult you, sir, and I thank you for the amount of custom you've brought me. You can't say as I'm unfair."

"You'll pardon me, Mr Ping; I never did."

"Thank you, sir; but as I was a saying, you've had clothes of me, sir, for years, and you haven't paid me, sir, and I haven't grumbled, seeing as you've introduced me clients, but I can't start an account for Mr Denville, junior, sir, and I won't."

The MC took snuff, and rested first on one leg and then on the other; lastly, he held his head on one side and admired two or three velvet waistcoat pieces, so as to give Mr Ping time to repent. But Mr Ping did not want time to repent, and he would not have repented had the MC stayed an hour, and this the latter knew, but dared not resent, bowing himself out at last gracefully.

"Good-morning, Mr Ping, good-morning. I am sorry you--er--but no matter. Lovely day, is it not?"

"Lovely, sir. Good-morning--poor, penniless, proud, stuck-up, half-starved old dandy," muttered the prosperous tradesman, as he stood in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves at the door, his grey hair all brushed forward into a fierce frise, and a yellow inch tape round his neck like an alderman's chain. "I wouldn't trust his boy a sixpence to save his life.

Prospects, indeed. Fas.h.i.+on, indeed. I expect he'll have to 'list."

The MC went smiling and mincing along the parade, waving his cane jauntily, and pa.s.sing his snuff-box into the other hand now and then to raise his hat to some one or another, till he turned up a side street, when, in the solitude of the empty way, he uttered a low groan, and his face changed.

"My G.o.d!" he muttered. "How long is this miserable degradation to last?"

He looked round sharply, as if in dread lest the emotion into which he had been betrayed should have been observed, but there was no one near.

"I must try Barclay. I dare not go to Frank Burnett, for poor May's sake."

A few minutes later he minced and rolled up to a large, heavy-looking mansion in a back street, where, beneath a great dingy portico, a grotesque satyr's head held a heavy knocker, and grinned at the visitor who made it sound upon the door.

"Hallo, Denville, you here?" said Mr Barclay, coming up from the street. "Didn't expect to see you. I've got the key: come in."

"A little bit of business, my dear sir. I thought I'd come on instead of writing. Thanks--you'll pardon me--a pinch of snuff--the Prince's own mixture."

"Ah yes." _Snuff, snuff, snuff_. "Don't like it though--too scented for me. Come along."

He led the way through a large, gloomy hall, well hung with large pictures and ornamented with pedestals and busts, up a broad, well-carpeted staircase and into the drawing-room of the house--a room, however, that looked more like a museum, so crowded was it with pictures, old china, clocks, statues, and bronzes. Huge vases, tiny Dresden ornaments, rich carpets, branches and l.u.s.tres of cut-gla.s.s and ormolu, almost jostled each other, while the centre of the room was filled with lounges, chairs and tables, rich in buhl and marqueterie.

At a table covered with papers sat plump, pleasant-looking Mrs Barclay, in a very rich, stiff brocade silk. Her appearance was vulgar; there were too many rings upon her fat fingers, too much jewellery about her neck and throat; and her showy cap was a wonder of lace and ribbons; but Nature had set its stamp upon her countenance, and though she was holding her head on one side, pursing up her lips and frowning as she wrote in the big ledger-like book open before her, there was no mistaking the fact that she was a thoroughly good-hearted amiable soul.

"Oh, bless us, how you startled me!" she cried, throwing herself back, for the door had opened quietly, and steps were hardly heard upon the soft carpet. "Why, it's you, Mr Denville, looking as if you were just going to a ball. How are you? Not well? You look amiss. And how's Miss Claire? and pretty little Mrs Mayblossom--Mrs Burnett?"

"My daughters are well in the extreme, Mrs Barclay," said the MC, taking the lady's plump extended hand as she rose, to bend over it, and kiss the fingers with the most courtly grace. "And you, my dear madam, you?"

"Oh, she's well enough, Denville," said Barclay, chuckling. "Robust's the word for her."

"For shame, Jo-si-ah!" exclaimed the lady, reddening furiously. She had only blushed slightly before with pleasure; and after kicking back her stiff silk dress to make a profound curtsey. "You shouldn't say such things. Why, Mr Denville, I haven't seen you for ever so long; and I've meant to call on Miss Claire, for we always get on so well together; but I'm so busy, what with the servants, _and_ the dusting, _and_ the keeping the books, _and_ the exercise as I'm obliged to take--"

"And don't," said Barclay, placing a chair for the MC, and then sitting down and putting his hands in his pockets.

"For shame, Jo-si-ah. I do indeed, Mr Denville, and it do make me so hot."

"There, that'll do, old lady. Mr Denville wants to see me on business.

Don't you, Denville?"