The Master of the Ceremonies Part 23

As for Linnell, he was surrounded by an excited crowd of people eager to shake hands with him, but none of whom could answer his questions about Mrs Dean.

"Mrs Dean?" said a wet, thick-set man, elbowing his way through. "All right; sent home in Lord Carboro's donkey-carriage. Mr Linnell, sir, your hand, sir. G.o.d bless you, sir, for a brave gentleman! Nice pair of wet ones, aren't we?"

"Oh, never mind, Mr Barclay," cried Linnell, shaking hands. "I'm only too thankful that we have got them safe ash.o.r.e."

"With no more harm done than to give the coachbuilder a job, eh? Ha, ha!"

"Three cheers for 'em!" shouted a voice; and they were heartily given.

"And three more for Fisherman d.i.c.k!" cried Linnell.

"Don't, Master Richard, sir--please don't!" cried the swarthy fisherman modestly.

"He did more than I did."

"No, no, Master Richard, sir," protested d.i.c.k, as the cheers were heartily given; and then a horrible thought smote Linnell:

"The boy--Mrs Dean's little groom! Where is he?"

"Oh, I'm all right, sir," cried a shrill voice. "When I see as missus couldn't stop the ponies, I dropped down off my seat on to the pier."

"Hurray! Well done, youngster!" cried first one and then another,

"Look here, Mr Richard," cried Barclay; "my place is nearest; come there, and send for some dry clothes."

"No, no; I'll get back," said Linnell. "Thanks all the same. Let me pa.s.s, please;" and as Cora Dean's ponies were led off to their stable, and Barclay went towards where plump Mrs Barclay was signalling him on the cliff, the young man hurried off homeward, followed by bursts of cheers, and having hard work to escape from the many idlers who were eager to shake his hand.

Volume One, Chapter XVIII.

UNREASONABLE CHILDREN.

"Claire, Claire! Quick, Claire!"

Pale and very anxious of aspect, Claire hurried down from her room, to find her father, in his elaborate costume, standing in an att.i.tude before one of the mirrors, not heeding her, so wrapped was he in his thoughts.

Her brow contracted, and she looked at him wonderingly, asking herself was his memory going, or was something more terrible than the loss of memory coming on? for he appeared to have forgotten that which was an agony to her, night and day.

Something had happened to please him, she knew, for his countenance at such times was easy to read; but all the same, his worn aspect was pitiable, and it was plain that beneath the mask he wore the terrible care was working its way.

"What is it, papa?" she said, in the calm, sad way which had become habitual with her.

"What is it?" he cried, in his mincing, artificial style.

"Success! a.s.sured fortune! The wretched fribbles who have been disposed to slight me and refuse my offices will now be at my feet. A brilliant match for you, and a high position in the world of fas.h.i.+on."

"Father!"

"Hush, child, and listen. The position of both of you is a.s.sured; a peaceful and more prosperous fortune for me! The few trifles I ask for: my snuff, a gla.s.s of port--one only--my cutlet, a suit of clothes when I desire a change, without an insulting reference to an old bill, the deference of tradespeople, freedom from debt. Claire, at last, at last!"

"Oh, papa!" cried the girl, with the tears welling over and dropping slowly from her beautiful eyes, while her sweet mouth seemed all a-tremble, and her agitated hands were stretched out to clasp the old man's arm.

But he waved her off.

"Don't, don't, Claire," he said quickly. "See there. I do detest to have my coat spotted. It is so foolish and weak."

Claire smiled--a sweet, sad smile--as she drew a clean cambric handkerchief from the pocket of her ap.r.o.n, shook it out, showing a long slit and a series of careful darns, removed the pearly drop before it had time to soak the cloth, and exclaimed:

"Then the town has conferred a salary upon you?"

"Pah! As if I would condescend to take it, girl!" cried the old man, drawing himself up more stiffly.

"A legacy?"

The Master of the Ceremonies shook his head.

"A commission for Morton?"

"No, no, no."

"Then--"

The old man waved his cane with a graceful flourish, placed it in the hand that held his snuff-box, opened the latter, and, after tapping it, took a pinch, as if it were a matter calling forth long study of deportment to perform, closed the box with a loud snap, and said, in a haughty, affected tone:

"Half an hour since, on a well-filled parade, I encountered His Royal Highness and a group of friends."

He paused, and took out a silk handkerchief, embroidered here and there with purple flowers by his child.

"And then--"

There was a flourish of the handkerchief, and the flicking away of imaginary specks from the tightly-b.u.t.toned coat.

"His Royal Highness--"

"Yes, papa," said Claire piteously, as he looked at her as if asking her attention.

At that moment Morton entered, looking weary and discontented; but, seeing his father's peculiar look, he checked the words he was about to say, and watched his face as he gave his handkerchief another flourish, replaced it, and took his cane from his left hand to twirl it gracefully.

"His Royal Highness shook hands with me."

"Oh!" exclaimed Morton, while Claire's brow grew more rugged.

"Shook hands with you, father?" said Morton eagerly.

"And asked me for a pinch of snuff."

There was a dead silence in the room as Claire clasped her hands together and trembled, and seemed about to speak, but dared not; while Morton screwed up his mouth to whistle, but refrained, looking half contemptuously at his father the while.

"Fortune has thrown a magnificent chance in our way."