The Master of the Ceremonies. Fenn George Manville
Clode,” he said firmly, “I do not confide to people what I think. Good-morning.”
“No, no: stop,” she said earnestly; and he turned, wondering at her tone of voice, and agitation.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Only – only – that I have known you so long, Mr Linnell, I can’t help – humbly, of course – taking a little interest in you – you made me feel so proud just now – when you tore up those foolish women’s letters – and now – ”
“Well, and now?” he said sternly.
“It troubled me – pray don’t be angry with me – it troubled me – to think – of course it was foolish of me, but I should not – should not like to see you – ”
“Well, Miss Clode, pray speak,” for she had stopped again.
“See you make an unworthy choice,” she faltered.
“Miss Clode, this is too much,” he said, flushing angrily, and he turned and left the shop, the little thin pale woman gazing after him wistfully and sighing bitterly as he passed from her sight.
“I’m – I’m very fond of him,” she said as she wiped a few weak tears from her eyes. “Such a brave, upright, noble young fellow, and so gentle one moment, and so full of spirit the next. Dear, dear, dear, what a thing it is! He never wastes money in gambling, and wine and follies. Perhaps he would though, if he were as rich as the rest of them. And he ought to be.”
She wiped her eyes again, and as she did so the woman’s entire aspect changed. For just then Miss Cora Dean was driven by in a hired carriage, her dark eyes flashing, half veiled as they were by the long fringe of lashes, and then she was gone.
“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Clode angrily, “you are a beauty, sitting up there as haughty as a duchess, and your wicked old mother lying back there in her silks and satins and laces, as if all Saltinville belonged to you, instead of being drowned. But mind this, my fine madams, I may be only little Miss Clode at the library, but if you work any harm between you to those I love I’ll have you both bundled neck and crop out of the place, or I’ll know the reason why.
“A wretch!” she said, after a pause. “She’d like nothing better than to tempt him to follow her. But he won’t! No; he’s thinking of that girl Claire, and she is not half good enough for him. I don’t like them and their fine ways. I don’t like Denville with his mincing, idiotic airs. How that man can go about as he does with the stain of that poor old woman’s death at his house astounds me.
“Well, poor wretch,” she said scornfully, “it is his trade, as this miserable go-between business is mine. Perhaps he has fallen as low as I have; but I don’t live as he does – as if he had thousands a year, when they are next door to starving and horribly in debt.
“Ah, well, it is to make a good show in his shop,” she went on, speaking very bitterly – “to dress the window, and sell his girls, and start his boys.
“Nice bargain he has made in selling one. There’s something more about that wretched little empty-headed child than I know, but I shall find out yet. Surely he does not think of that boy and Drelincourt. Oh, it would be too absurd. I’ve not seen the other brother lately. What a family! And for that boy to be taken with – oh, I must stop it if I can.
“Mrs Burnett? Yes, I must know about her. There was a great deal going on with that poor young artist who went away – and died. There was some mystery about that, I know, and – ”
“What are you talking about, auntie? I thought there was some one in the shop, and came to see if you wanted me.”
“Talking? I talking? Oh, nonsense, my dear. I was only thinking aloud.”
“Well, auntie, it was very loud, for I heard you say you would have to find out something about Mrs Burnett.”
“You heard me say that? Nonsense!”
“But I did, auntie; and, do you know, I could tell you something so funny about her.”
“You could, child?” cried the little woman fiercely.
“Yes, and about Mr Richard Linnell, too.”
Miss Clode caught the girl by the arm, and held her tightly while she seemed to be gasping for breath.
“About May Burnett? about Richard Linnell?”
“Yes, auntie, for do you know the other night as I was going down by the lower cliff to see if Fisherman Dick had – ”
“Hush!” cried Miss Clode, pressing her arm so sharply that the girl winced. “Here she is.”
Volume One – Chapter Twenty.
Barclay’s Tenants
“It was scandalous,” Saltinville said, “that she should accept it.”
But she did: a handsome little carriage that came down from Long Acre, and was sent round to the stables, where Cora Dean’s ponies were put up and kept now on a shorter allowance of corn.
The note was a simple one, written in a very large hand that was decidedly shaky. There was a coronet on the top, and its owner, Lord Carboro’, begged Miss Dean’s acceptance of the little gift, with his sorrow that he was the cause of the mishap, and his congratulations that she was not hurt.
This was all very refined and in accordance with etiquette. The postscript looked crotchety.
“P.S. – Tell your people not to give them so much corn.”
Cora did so, and said that she should drive out to show the people of Saltinville that she was no coward.
“Then I’ll go with you, Betsy,” said Mrs Dean, “to show ’em I ain’t, too: and, you mark my words, this’ll be the making of you in society.”
So Cora took her drives as of old, found that she was very much noticed by the gentlemen, very little by the ladies, but waited her time.
The Deans lodged at one of the best houses in the Parade – a large, double-fronted place facing the sea, with spacious balcony and open hall door, and porch ornamented with flowers.
The little groom sprang down and ran to the ponies’ heads as his mistress alighted, and after sweeping her rich dress aside, held out her hand for her mother, who got out of the carriage slowly, and in what was meant for a very stately style, her quick beady eyes having shown her that the windows on either side of the front door were wide open, while her sharp ears and her nose had already given her notice that the lodgers were at home – a low buzzing mellow hum with a wild refrain in high notes, announcing that old Mr Linnell was at work with his violoncello to his son’s violin, and a faint penetrating perfume – or smell, according to taste – suggesting that Colonel Mellersh was indulging in a cigar.
Mrs Dean’s daughter was quite as quick in detecting these signs, and, raising her head and half closing her eyes, she swept gracefully into the house, unconscious of the fact that Richard Linnell drew back a little from the window on one side of the door, and that Colonel Mellersh showed his teeth as he lay back in his chair beside a small table, on which was a dealt-out pack of cards.
“I should like to poison that old woman,” said the Colonel, gathering together the cards.
“I wish Mr Barclay had let the first floor to some one else, Richard,” said a low pleasant voice from the back of the room. P-r-r-rm, Pr-um!
The speaker did not say Pr-r-rm, Pr-um! That sound was produced by an up and down draw of the bow across the fourth string of the old violoncello he held between his legs, letting the neck of the instrument with its pegs fall directly after into the hollow of his arm, as he picked up a cake of amber-hued transparent rosin from the edge of a music stand, and began thoughtfully to rub it up and down the horse-hair of the bow.
The speaker’s was a pleasant handsome face of a man approaching sixty; but though his hair was very grey, he was remarkably well-preserved. His well-cut rather effeminate face showed but few lines, and there was just a tinge of colour in