The Master of the Ceremonies. Fenn George Manville

under the impression that the dog would seize the rope and hold on till he was drawn up, for no boat was near.

      The rope was well aimed, for it struck the pet heavily, knocking him under, and the rough boatman took off his glazed hat, and scratched a very rough head, staring in wonderment at the effect of his well-meant effort.

      But Titi came up again and yelped loudly, this time with a sweet, silvery, watery gurgle in his throat.

      Then he turned over, and a lady shrieked. Then he paddled about on his side, and made a foam in the water, and in spite of the helpless, sympathising glances given through the gold-rimmed eyeglass of the Master of the Ceremonies, Titi must have been drowned had there not been a sudden splash from the staging of the pier somewhere below, a loud exciting cry, and a figure seen to rise from its plunge, swim steadily to the drowning dog, reach it amidst a storm of delighted cries, swim back to the staging, and disappear.

      This was the correct time, and Lady Drelincourt fainted dead away, with her head resting upon her shoulder, and her shoulder on the back of her chair. Immediately there was a rustling in bow-decked reticules, smelling salts were drawn, and Lady Drelincourt’s nose was attacked. She was almost encircled with cut-glass bottles.

      The Master of the Ceremonies looked on, posed in an attitude full of eager interest, and he saw, what was nothing new to his attentive gaze, that Time had behaved rudely to Lady Drelincourt; that art had been called in to hide his ravages, and that her ladyship’s attitude caused cracks in the thickened powder, and that it differed in tone from the skin beneath; that there was a boniness of bust, and an angularity of shoulder where it should have been round and soft; and that if her ladyship fainted much more he would not be answerable for the consequences to her head of hair.

      But Lady Drelincourt was not going to faint much more. The dog had been saved, and she had fainted enough, so that at the first approach of a rude hand to loosen the fastenings at her throat, she sighed and gasped, struggled faintly, opened her eyes of belladonna brilliancy, stared wildly round, recovered her senses, and exclaimed:

      “Where is he? Where is my Titi? Where is his preserver?” and somebody said, “Here!”

      There was a hurried opening of the circle, and Stuart Denville, Esquire, Master of the Ceremonies, struck a fresh attitude full of astonishment, but, like the rest of the well-dressed throng, he shrank away, as a tall, fair youth, dripping with water, which made his hair and clothes cling closely, came from an opening that led to the piles below, squeezing the pug to free him from moisture, and gazing from face to face.

      “You rascally prodigal!” whispered the Master of the Ceremonies, as the youth came abreast, “you’ve been fishing for dabs again!”

      “Well, suppose I have,” said the youth sulkily.

      “Where is his preserver? Give me back my darling Titi,” wailed Lady Drelincourt; and catching the wet fat dog to her breast, regardless of the effect upon her rich black silk dress and crape, the little beast uttered a satisfied yelp and nestled up to her, making a fat jump upwards so as to lick a little of the red off the lady’s lips.

      “And who was it saved you, my precious?” sobbed the lady.

      “Lady Drelincourt,” said the Master of the Ceremonies, taking the youth’s hand gingerly, with one glove, “allow me to introduce your dear pet’s preserver – it was Morton Denville, Lady Drelincourt, my son. I am sorry he is so very wet.”

      “Bless you – bless you!” cried Lady Drelincourt with effusion. “I could embrace you, you brave and gallant man, but – but – not now.”

      “No, no – not now. Lady Drelincourt, let me assist you to your chair. Morton,” he whispered, “you’re like a scarecrow: quick, be off. You dog, if you mind me now, your fortune’s made.”

      “Oh, is it, father? Well, I’m precious glad. I say, isn’t it cold?”

      “Yes: quick – home, and change your things. Stop; where are you going?”

      “Down below, to fetch the dabs.”

      “Damn the dabs, sir,” whispered the Master of the Ceremonies excitedly; “you’ll spoil the effect. Run, sir, run!”

      The youth hesitated a moment and then started and ran swiftly towards the cliff, amidst a shrill burst of cheers, the ladies fluttering their handkerchiefs, and fisherman Dick Miggles wishing he had been that there boy.

      “Denville – dear Denville,” said her ladyship, “how proud you must be of such a son!”

      “The idol of my life, dear Lady Drelincourt,” said the Master of the Ceremonies, arranging her dress in the bath-chair. “Shall I carry the poor dog?”

      “No, no – no, no, my darling Titi!” cried the lady, to his great relief. “Thomas, take me home quickly,” she said, as the wet dog nestled in her crape lap and uttered a few snuffles of satisfaction. “Quick, or Titi will take cold Denville, see me safely home. My nerves are gone.”

      “The shock, of course.”

      “Yes, Denville, and I shall never forget your gallant son,” sobbed her ladyship hysterically, as they passed through a lane of promenaders; “but I must not cry.”

      It was indeed quite evident that such a giving way to natural feeling would have had serious results, and she was not veiled. So the rising tear was sent back, and Denville saw her safely home, forgetting for the moment his domestic troubles in his exultation, and making out a future for his son, as the rich Lady Drelincourt’s protégé – a commission – a handsome allowance. Perhaps – ah, who knew! Such unions had taken place before now.

      For the next half-hour he was living artificially, seeing his son advanced in life, and his daughter dwelling in a kind of fairy castle that had been raised through Lady Drelincourt’s introduction.

      Then as he approached home a black cloud seemed to come down and close him in, the artificiality was gone, age seemed to be attacking him, and he moaned as he reached the door.

      “Heaven help me, and give me strength to keep up this actor’s life, for I’m very, very weak.”

      Volume One – Chapter Eleven.

      The Opening of a Vein

      “Well, young Denville,” said Dick Miggles, the great swarthy fisherman, whose black hair, dark eyes, and aquiline features told that his name was a corruption of Miguel, and that he was a descendant of one of the unfortunates who had been wrecked and imprisoned when the Spanish Armada came to grief, and had finally resolved to “remain an Englishman.”

      Dick Miggles rarely did anything in the daytime but doze and smoke. Of course, he ate and drank, and, as on the present occasion, nursed the little girl that Mrs Miggles, who was as round and snub and English of aspect as her lord was Spanish, had placed in his arms. At night matters were different, and people did say – but never mind.

      “Well, young Denville,” said Fisherman Dick, as he sat on the bench outside his whitewashed cottage with the whelk-shell path, bordered with marigold beds, one of which flowers he picked from time to time to give the child.

      “Well, Dick, where are my dabs?”

      “Haw-haw,” said the fisherman, laughing. “I say, missus, where’s them dabs?”

      Mrs Miggles was washing up the dinner things, and she came out with a dish on which were a number of fried heads and tails, with a variety of spinal and other bones.

      “What a shame!” cried Morton, with a look of disgust. “I do call that shabby, Dick.”

      “How was I to know that you would come after ’em, lad? I’d ha’ brote ’em, but I don’t like to come to your house now.”

      “I say, Dick, don’t be a fool,” cried the lad. “What’s the good of raking up that horrid affair, now it’s all dead and buried?”

      “Nay,” said Dick, shaking his head. “That ar’n’t all dead and buried, like the old woman, my lad. There’s more trouble to come out o’ that business yet.”

      “Oh,