The Master of the Ceremonies. Fenn George Manville

He’s going towards our place. Can it be Cora Dean?”

      “Hang him, no,” said the Colonel pettishly. “Perhaps so, though. I hope not, or we shall have your father calling us idiots – deservedly so – for our pains. Wrong, Dick; the old man will sleep in peace. Will it be Drelincourt?”

      “Madame Pontardent, perhaps.”

      “No, no, no, my lad; he’s going straight along. How lovely the sea looks!”

      “And how refreshing it is after that hot, noisy room.”

      “Insufferable. What fools men are to sit and drink when they might play whist!”

      “And win money,” said Linnell drily.

      “To be sure, my lad. Oh, you’ll come to it in time. Where the dickens is he going? Who can the lady be?”

      The Major evidently knew, for he was walking smartly ahead, in earnest converse with half a dozen more. Then came the Colonel and his companion, and three more of the party brought up the rear.

      The Major’s course was still by the row of houses that faced the sea, now almost without a light visible, and Richard Linnell was dreamily watching the waves that looked like liquid gold as they rose, curved over and broke upon the shingle, when all the blood seemed to rush at once to his heart, and then ebb away, leaving him choking and paralysed, for the Colonel suddenly said aloud:

      “Claire Denville!”

      And he saw that their host of the night had stopped before the house of the Master of the Ceremonies.

      The blood began to flow again, this time with a big wave of passionate rage in Richard Linnell’s breast. He was furious. How dared that handsome libertine profane Claire Denville by even thinking of her? How dared he bring him there, to play beneath the window – the window he had so often watched, and looked upon as a sacred temple – the resting-place of her he loved.

      He was ready to seize the Major by the throat; to fight for her; to say anything; to dash down the instrument in his rage; to turn and flee; but the next moment the cool, calm voice of the Colonel brought him to his senses, and he recalled that this was his secret – his alone – this secret of his love.

      “I did not know the Major was warm there. Well, she’s a handsome girl, and he’s welcome, I dare say.”

      Linnell felt ready to choke again, but he could not speak. He must get out of this engagement, though, at any cost.

      As he was musing, though, he found himself drawn as it were to where the Major and his friends were standing in front of the silent house, and the Colonel said:

      “Come, my lad, let’s run through the piece, and get home to bed. I’m too old for such tom-fool tricks as these.”

      “I will not play! It is an insult! It is madness!” thought Richard Linnell; and then, as if in a dream, he found himself the centre of a group, fuming at what he was doing, while, as if in spite of his rage, he was drawing the sweet echoing strains from the violin, listening to the harmonies added by his friend, and all in a nightmare-like fashion, playing involuntarily on, and gazing at the windows he had so often watched.

      On, on, on, the notes poured forth, throbbing on the night air, sounding pensive, sweet and love-inspiring, maddening too, as he tried to check his thoughts, and played with more inspiration all the while till the last bar, with its diminuendo, was reached, and he stood there, palpitating, asking himself why he had done this thing, and waiting trembling in his jealous rage, lest any notice should be taken of the compliment thus paid.

      Did Claire Denville encourage the Major – that libertine whose amours were one of the scandals of the place? Oh, it was impossible. She would not have heard the music. If she had she would have thought it from some wanderers, for she had never heard him play. She would not notice it. She would not heed it. In her virgin youth and innocency it was a profanation to imagine that Claire Denville – sweet, pure Claire Denville – the woman he worshipped, could notice such an attention. No, it was impossible she would; and his eyes almost started as he gazed at the white-curtained windows, looking so solemn and so strange.

      No, no, no; she would not notice, even if she had heard, and a strange feeling of elation came into the jealous breast.

      “Come,” he said hoarsely, “let us go.”

      “One moment, lad. Ah, yes,” said the Colonel. “Gloriana has heard the serenade, and is about to respond to her lover’s musically amatory call. Look, Dick, look.”

      Richard Linnell’s heart sank, for a white arm drew back the curtain, and then the catch of the window fastening was pressed back, and a chord in the young man’s breast seemed to snap; but it was only the spring of the window hasp.

      Click!

      Volume One – Chapter Seven.

      After the Storm

      The “ghastly serenade” it was called at Saltinville as the facts became known.

      That night Richard Linnell was standing with his teeth set, his throat dry, and a feeling of despair making his heart seem to sink, watching the white hand that was waved as soon as the sash was opened. Half blind with the blood that seemed to rush to his eyes, he glared at the window. Then a sudden revulsion of feeling came over him as a familiar voice that was not Claire’s cried, “Help! – a doctor!” and then the speaker seemed to stagger away.

      The rest was to Richard Linnell like some dream of horror, regarding which he recalled the next morning that he had thundered at the door, that he had helped to carry Claire to her room, and that he had afterwards been one of the group who stood waiting in the dining-room until the doctor came down to announce that Miss Denville was better – that Lady Teigne was quite dead.

      Then they had stolen out on tiptoe, and in the stillness of the early morning shaken hands all round and separated, the Major remaining with them, and walking with Colonel Mellersh and Richard Linnell to their door.

      “What a horror!” he said hoarsely. “I would not for the world have taken you two there had I known. Good-night – good-morning, I should say;” and he, too, said those words – perhaps originated the saying – “What a ghastly serenade!”

      Nine days – they could spare no more in Saltinville, for it would have spoiled the season – nine days’ wonder, and then the news that a certain royal person was coming down, news blown by the trumpet of Fame with her attendants, raised up enough wind to sweep away the memory of the horror on the Parade.

      “She was eighty if she was a day,” said Sir Matthew Bray: “and it was quite time the old wretch did die.”

      “Nice way of speaking of a lady whose relative you are seeking to be,” said Sir Harry Payne. “Sweet old nymph. How do you make it fit, Matt?”

      “Fit? Some scoundrel of a London tramp scaled the balcony, they say. Fine plunder, the rascal! All those diamonds.”

      “Which she might have left her sister, and then perhaps they would have come to you, Matt.”

      “Don’t talk stuff.”

      “Stuff? Why, you are besieging the belle. But, I say, I have my own theory about that murder.”

      “Eh, have you?” cried the great dragoon, staring open-mouthed.

      “Egad! yes, Matt. It was not a contemptible robbery.”

      “Wasn’t it? You don’t say so.”

      “But I do,” cried Sir Harry seriously. “Case of serious jealousy on the part of some lover of the bewitching creature. He came in the dead o’ night and smothered the Desdemona with a pillow. What do you say, Rockley?”

      The Major had strolled across the mess-room and heard these words.

      “Bah! Don’t ridicule the matter,” he said. “Change the subject.”

      “As you like, but the feeble flame only wanted a momentary touch of the extinguisher and it was gone.”

      At the house on the Parade there