The Master of the Ceremonies. Fenn George Manville

you at once to a position amongst women, and these light, flippant ways sit so ill upon one like you.”

      “Oh, pooh! stuff! you silly, particular old frump!” cried May sharply. “Do you suppose that a married woman is going to be like a weak, prudish girl? There, there, there; I did not come to quarrel, and I won’t be scolded. I say, they tell me that handsome Major Rockley is likely to throw himself away on Cora Dean.”

      “Oh, May, May, my darling!”

      “You are a goose not to catch him in your own net.”

      “Major Rockley?”

      “Yes; he is rich and handsome. I wish I’d had him instead of Frank.”

      “May, dear May!”

      “Oh, I know: it’s only talk. But, I say, dear, have you heard about old Drelincourt? So shocking! In mourning, too. They say she is mad to marry some one. There, good-bye. Don’t crush my bonnet. Oh, of course; yes, I’m going to be as prudish as you, and so careful. Well, what is it?”

      “May, you cannot deceive me; you have something on your mind.”

      “I? Nonsense! Absurd!”

      “You were going to tell me something; to ask me to help you, I am sure.”

      “Well – perhaps – yes,” said the little thing, with scarlet face. “But you frightened me out of it. I daren’t now. Next time. Good-bye; good-bye; good-bye.”

      She rattled these last words out hastily, kissed her sister, and hurried, in a strangely excited manner, from the room.

      Claire watched the carriage go, and then sank back out of sight in a chair, to clasp her hands upon her knees, and gaze before her with a strangely old look upon her beautiful face.

      For there was trouble, not help, to be obtained from the wilful, girlish wife who had so lately left her side.

      Volume One – Chapter Thirteen.

      A Night-Bird Trapped

      It was, as Morton Denville said, cold and cheerless at his home, and the proceedings that night endorsed his words, as at half-past ten, after the servants had been dismissed, his father rose to seek his sleepless couch.

      Claire rose at the same moment, starting from a silent musing fit, while Morton threw down the book he had been reading in a very ill-used way.

      “Good-night, my son,” said Denville, holding out his hand, and grasping the lad’s with unusual fervour. “Good-night, father.”

      “And you’ll mind and be particular now, my boy. I am sure that at last I can advance your prospects.”

      “Oh, yes, father, I’ll be particular.”

      “Don’t let people see you fishing there again.” “No, father, I’ll take care. Good-night. Coming Claire?” Claire had put away her needlework, and was standing cold and silent by the table.

      “Good-night, Claire, my child,” said Denville, with a piteous look and appeal in his tone.

      “Good-night, father.”

      She did not move as the old man took a couple of steps forward and kissed her brow, laying his hands afterwards upon her head and muttering a blessing.

      Then, in spite of her efforts, a chill seemed to run through her, and she trembled, while he, noting it, turned away with a look of agony in his countenance that he sought to conceal, and sank down in the nearest chair.

      He seemed to be a totally different man, and those who had seen him upon the cliff and pier would not have recognised in him the fashionable fribble, whose task it was to direct the flight of the butterflies of the Assembly Room, and preside at every public dance.

      “Aren’t you going to bed, father?” said Morton, trying to speak carelessly.

      “Yes, yes, my son, yes. I only wish to think out my plans a little – your commission, and other matters.”

      “I hope he won’t be long,” muttered Morton as he left the room. “Why, Claire, how white and cold you are! There, hang me if it isn’t enough to make a fellow sell himself to that old Lady Drelincourt for the sake of getting money to take care of you. If I’d got plenty, you should go abroad for a change.”

      Claire kissed him affectionately.

      “Hang me if I don’t begin to hate May. She doesn’t seem like a sister to us. Been here to-day, hasn’t she? I heard they’d come back.”

      “Yes,” said Claire with a sigh.

      “It was cowardly of them to go off like that, when you were in such trouble. You did not have a single woman come and say a kind word when —that was in the house.”

      “Don’t speak of it, dear,” said Claire. “Mrs Barclay came, though.”

      “Rum old girl! I always feel ready to laugh at her.”

      “She has a heart of gold.”

      “Old Barclay has a box of gold, and nice and tightly he keeps it locked up. I say, he’ll sell us up some day.”

      “Morton dear, I can’t bear to talk to you to-night; and don’t speak like that of May. She has her husband to obey.”

      “Bless him!” cried Morton musingly. “Good-night, Sis.”

      He kissed her affectionately, and a faint smile came into Claire’s wan face, as it seemed to comfort her in her weary sorrow. Then they parted, and she went to her room, opened the window, and sat with her face among the flowers, watching the sea and thinking of some one whom she had in secret seen pass by there at night.

      That was a dream of the past, she told herself now, for it could never be. Love, for her, was dead; no man could call her wife with such a secret as she held in her breast, and as she thought on, her misery seemed greater than she could bear.

      The tide was well up, and the stars glittered in the heaving bosom of the sea as she sat and gazed out; and then all at once her heart seemed to stand still, and then began beating furiously, for a familiar step came slowly along the cobble-paved walk in front of the house, along by the railed edge of the cliff, and then for a moment she could see the tall, dark figure she knew so well, gazing wistfully up at the window.

      She knew he loved her; she knew that her heart had gone out to him, though their acquaintance was of the most distant kind. She knew, too, how many obstacles poverty had thrown in the way of both, but some day, she had felt, all would be swept away. Now all that was past. She must never look at him again.

      She shrank from the window, and sank upon her knees, weeping softly for the unattainable, as she felt how he must love her, and that his heart was with her in sympathy with all her trouble.

      “Dead – dead – dead,” she moaned; “my love is dead, and my life-course broadly marked out, so that I cannot turn to the right or left.”

      She started and shuddered, for below her there was the tread of a heavy foot. She heard her father’s slight cough, and his closing door, and at the same moment, as if it were he who separated them, the step outside could be heard returning, and Claire arose and crept to the window again to listen till it died away.

      “Dead – dead – my love is dead,” she moaned again, and closing the window, she strove to forget her agony of mind and the leaden weight that seemed to rest upon her brow in sleep.

      Eleven had struck, and two quarters had chimed before Morton Denville dared to stir. He had waited with open door, listening impatiently for his father’s retiring; he had listened to the steps outside; and then at last, with all the eagerness of a boy, in spite of his near approach to manhood, and excited by the anticipations of the fishing, and the romance of the little adventure, he stole forth with his shoes in his hands, after carefully closing the catch of his well-oiled door.

      The crucial part was the passing of the end of the passage leading to his father’s room, and here he paused for a few moments, but he fancied he could hear a long-drawn breathing, and, after a hasty glance at the door of the