The Master of the Ceremonies Part 72

"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, d.i.c.k. 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."

"Pis.h.!.+" 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, d.i.c.k, 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 G.o.d!"

"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, d.i.c.k, we'll go and see the affair to-night; but what do you mean to do?"

"Act according to circ.u.mstances. At any rate stop this wretched business."

"Good," said Mellersh. "I'm with you, d.i.c.k; 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 XXIII.

AN EXACTING GUEST.

Mrs Pontardent was a lady of a cla.s.s who prospered well in the days when George the Third was king, and fas.h.i.+onable 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 t.i.tle 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 a.s.sembled.

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 pa.s.sed her, he had made no other advance; and when Richard Linnell arrived he did not attempt to speak, but pa.s.sed 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 antic.i.p.ated. 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 pa.s.sed on Morton Denville's arm.

That was the unkindest act of all, for the boy had seen her, and was about to nod and smile, forgetful in the elation produced by several gla.s.ses of wine, of the cause of offence between them; but, taking his cue from the lady on his arm, he drew himself up stiffly and pa.s.sed on.

The tears rose to Claire's eyes, but she mastered her emotion, as she saw Major Rockley on the other side of the room, keenly observant of all that had pa.s.sed; and to hide her grief she went on talking to the gentleman who had just solicited her hand for the next dance.

Richard Linnell pa.s.sed her soon afterwards with Cora upon his arm, and a jealous pang shot through her; but it pa.s.sed away, and she resigned herself to her position, as if she had suffered so many pangs of late that her senses were growing blunted, and suffering was becoming easier to her.

Morton Denville was dismissed soon after in favour of Sir Matthew Bray; and, in his boy-like excitement, looked elated one moment as the half-fledged officer of dragoons, annoyed and self-conscious the next, as he kept seeing his father bowing and mincing about the rooms, or caught sight of his sister, whom he shunned.

It was a miserable evening, he thought, and he wished he had not come.

Then he wondered whether he looked well, for he fancied that the Adjutant had smiled at him.

A minute later he was thinking that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and this enjoyment he found in a gla.s.s of Mrs Pontardent's champagne.

The dancing went on; so did the flirting in the saloons and in the garden, which was brilliant in front of the windows, deliciously dark and love-inspiring down the shady walks, for there the strains of the band came in a sweetly subdued murmur that the young officers declared was intoxicating, a charge that was misapplied.

The play grew higher as the night wore on, the conversation and laughter louder, the dancing more spirited, and the party was at its height when Mrs Pontardent, in obedience to an oft-repeated look from Major Rockley, walked up to him slowly, and took his arm.

"My dear Major: what a look!" she said banteringly. "You met the handsome youth, and you shot him. After that you ought to be friends, whereas I saw you exchange a look with poor Mr Linnell that was only excelled by the one you gave Colonel Mellersh."

"d.a.m.n Colonel Mellers.h.!.+" said Rockley savagely.