The Master of the Ceremonies. Fenn George Manville

now. Yes, there is,” he muttered. “Those boats.”

      Cora turned her eyes upon him with a frightened look, but she was growing more calm, though she could not speak, and the ponies kept on snorting loudly as they swam on.

      “Keep quiet, will you, you fools!” grumbled Dick Miggles, as bursts of cheers kept rising from the pier, answered by a gathering crowd on the beach about where they were expected to land, while the cliff was now lined with people who had heard of the accident on the pier.

      “Here! hoy!” roared Dick Miggles, who had grasped the danger. “Wo-ho, my boys, I’m with you. It’s all right.”

      “Ahoy!” came from the nearest boat, whose occupants were rowing with all their might.

      “Back with you. D’ye hear! Wo-ho, lads; it’s all right. Back, I say. You’ll frighten the horses again.”

      “We’re coming to help you,” came from the boat.

      “Go back, curse yer!” roared Dick. “Don’t you see what you’re doing.”

      The ponies were getting scared by the shouting, but by dint of patting and soothing words, they were calmed down once more, and the boatmen, in obedience to the orders given, ceased rowing.

      “Go back, and bid ’em hold their row,” cried Dick, as he guided the ponies. “We must get in quiet, or the horses’ll go mad again.”

      The men rowed back, communicating their orders to the other boats, whose occupants rested on their oars, while, like some sea-queen, Cora was drawn on in her chariot towards the shore, but looking terribly unaccustomed to the mode of procedure, as she still clung to the front of the little carriage.

      “Miggles.”

      “’Ullo?”

      “Can you manage them alone? The lady.”

      “All right, Master Linnell, sir. They’ll go now. We shall be ashore directly.”

      He had turned his head and seen what was wrong as Richard Linnell loosed his hold of the pony’s head, letting it swim on, though the frightened beast uttered a snorting neigh and tried to follow him, till its attention was taken up by the soothing words of Dick Miggles, and it struck out afresh for the shore.

      Meanwhile Richard had caught Cora Dean as she loosened her grasp of the front of the carriage, for he had seen that something was coming as her countenance changed and her eyes half-closed.

      It was an easy task, for he had only to check her as she was floating out of the carriage, and take hold of the front with his right hand to let himself be drawn ashore.

      She opened her eyes again with a start, as if she were making an effort to master her emotion, and they rested on Linnell’s as he held her tightly to his breast. Then she shivered and clung to him, and the next minute the ponies’ hoofs touched the shingly bottom, and people began to realise how it was that the carriage had not sunk in the deep water and dragged the ponies down.

      It was plain enough. There was nothing but the slight body with its seats, which had been torn from springs, axle-trees, and wheels, giving it more than ever the aspect of a chariot drawn by sea-horses through the waves.

      The ponies were for making a fresh dash as soon as they felt the yielding shingle beneath their hoofs, but a dozen willing hands were at their heads; the remains of the carriage were drawn up the beach, and the traces were loosened and twisted up, while Cora was borne by a couple of gentlemen to one of several carriages offered to bear her home.

      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. God 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 ashore.”

      “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 Dick!” 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 Dick, 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 pass, 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 Eighteen.

      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 attitude 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! Assured 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 fashion.”

      “Father!”

      “Hush, child, and listen. The position of both of you is assured; a peaceful and more prosperous fortune for me! The few trifles I ask for: my snuff, a glass 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 apron, 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