The Master of the Ceremonies. Fenn George Manville
the teapot, whose lid Claire had raised, and stood motionless while she poured it out again, and then unlocked a very small tea-caddy and spooned out three very small spoonfuls – one apiece, and none for the over-cleaned and de-silvered plated pot. This done, Isaac filled up, placed the kettle on the hob, fetched a Bible and prayer-book from a sideboard, placed them at one end of the table and went out.
“Why is not Morton down?” said the MC sternly.
“He came down quite an hour ago, papa. He must have gone for a walk. Shall we wait?”
“Certainly not, my child.”
At that moment there was a little scuffling outside the door, which was opened directly after by Isaac, who admitted Eliza and a very angular-looking woman with two pins tightly held between her lips – pins that she had intended to transfer to some portion of her garments, but had not had time. These three placed themselves before three chairs by the door, and waited till the MC had gracefully replaced his snuff-box, and taken two steps to the table, where he and Claire sat down. Then the servants took their seats, and then “Master” opened the Bible to read in a slow, deliberate way, and as if he enjoyed the names, that New Testament chapter on genealogies which to youthful ears seemed to be made up of a constant repetition of the two words, “which was.”
This ended, all rose and knelt down, Isaac with the point of his elbow just touching the point of Eliza’s elbow, for he comforted his conscience over this tender advance by the reflection that marriage, though distant, was a sacred thing; and he made up for his unspiritual behaviour to a great extent by saying the “Amens” in a much louder voice than Cook, and finished off in the short space of silence after the Master of the Ceremonies had read the last Collect, and when all were expected to continue their genuflexions till that personage sighed and made a movement as if to rise, by adding a short extempore prayer of his own, one which he had repeated religiously for the past four years without effect, the supplication being:
“And finally, may we all get the arrears of our wages, evermore. Amen.”
Isaac had finished his supplementary prayer; the MC sighed and rose, and, the door being opened by the footman, the two maids stepped out. Isaac followed, and in a few minutes returned with a very coppery rack, containing four thin pieces of toast, and a little dish whose contents were hidden by a very battered cover. These were placed with the greatest form upon the table, and the cover removed with a flourish, to reveal two very thin and very curly pieces of streaky bacon, each of which had evidently been trying to inflate itself like the frog in the fable, but with no other result than the production of a fatty bladdery puff, supported by a couple of patches of brown.
Isaac handed the toast to father and daughter, and then went off with the cover silently as a spirit, and the breakfast was commenced by the MC softly breaking a piece of toast with his delicate fingers and saying:
“I am displeased with Morton. After yesterday’s incident, he should have been here to discuss with me the future of his campaign.”
“Here he is, papa,” cried Claire eagerly, and she rose to kiss her brother affectionately as he came rather boisterously into the room, looking tall, thin and pale, but healthy and hungry, as an overgrown boy of nineteen would look who had been out at the seaside before breakfast.
“You were not here to prayers, Morton,” said the MC sternly.
“No, father; didn’t know it was so late,” said the lad, beginning on the toast as soon as he was seated.
“I trust that you have not been catching – er – er – dabs, this morning.” The word was distasteful when the fish was uncooked, and required an effort to enunciate.
“Oh, but I have, though. Rare sport this morning. Got enough for dinner.”
The MC was silent for a few moments, and gracefully sipped his thin tea. He was displeased, but there was a redeeming feature in his son’s announcement – enough fish for dinner. There would be no need to order anything of the butcher.
“Hush, Morton,” said Claire softly, and she laid her soft little hand on his, seeing their father about to speak.
“I am – er – sorry that you should be so thoughtless, Morton,” said his father; “at a time, too, when I am making unheard-of efforts to obtain that cornetcy for you; how can you degrade yourself – you, the son of a – er – man – a – er – gentleman in my position, by going like a common boy down below that pier to catch – er – dabs!”
“Well, we want them,” retorted the lad. “A good dinner of dabs isn’t to be sneezed at. I’m as hungry as hungry, sometimes. See how thin I am. Why, the boys laugh, and call me Lanky Denville.”
“What is the opinion of boys to a young man with your prospects in life?” said his father, carefully ignoring the question of food supply. “Besides, you ought to be particular, sir, for the sake of your sister May, who has married so well.”
“What, to jerry-sneaky Frank Burnett? A little humbug.”
“Morton!”
“Well, so he is, father. I asked him to lend me five shillings the day before yesterday, and he called me an importunate beggar.”
“You had no business to ask him for money, sir.”
“Who am I to ask, then? I must have money. You won’t let me go out to work.”
“No, sir; you are a gentleman’s son, and must act as a gentleman.”
“I can’t act as a gentleman without money,” cried the lad, eating away, for, to hide the look of pain in her face, Claire kept diligently attending to her brother’s wants by supplying him with a fair amount of thin tea and bread and butter, as well as her own share of the bacon.
“My dear son,” said the MC with dignity, “everything comes to the man who will wait. Your sister May has made a wealthy marriage. Claire will, I have no doubt, do the same, and I have great hopes of your prospects.”
“Haven’t any prospects,” said the lad, in an ill-used tone.
“Not from me,” said the MC, “for I am compelled to keep up appearances before the world, and my fees and offerings are not nearly so much as people imagine.”
“Then why don’t we live accordingly?” said the lad roughly.
“Allow me, with my experience, sir, to know best; and I desire that you will not take that tone towards me. Recollect, sir, that I am your father.”
“Indeed, dear papa, Morton does not mean to be disrespectful.”
“Silence, Claire. And you, Morton; I will be obeyed.”
“All right, father. I’ll obey fast enough, but it does seem precious hard to see Ikey down in the kitchen stuffing himself, and us up in the parlour going short so as to keep up appearances.”
“My boy,” said the MC pathetically, “it is Spartan-like. It is self-denying and manly. Have courage, and all will end well. I know it is hard. It is my misfortune, but I appeal to you both, do I ever indulge myself at your expense? Do I ever spare myself in my efforts for you?”
“No, no, no, dear,” cried Claire, rising with tears in her eyes to throw her arm round his neck and kiss him.
“Good girl! – good girl!” he said, smiling sadly, and returning the embrace. “But sit down, sit down now, and let us discuss these very weighty matters. Fortune is beginning to smile upon us, my dears. May is off my hands – well married.”
Claire shook her head sadly.
“I say well married, Claire,” said her father sternly, “and though we have still that trouble ever facing us, of a member of our family debauched by drunkenness, and sunk down to the degradation of a common soldier – ”
“Oh! I say, father, leave poor old Fred alone,” cried Morton. “He isn’t a bad fellow; only unlucky.”
“Be silent, sir, and do not mention his name again in my presence. And Claire, once for all, I forbid his coming to this house.”
“He