Читать книгу The Master of the Ceremonies - George Manville Fenn - Страница 11

Lady Teigne’s drawing-room was in full progress, and Claire was working hard at her tambour frame, earning money respectably, and listening to the coming and going of the visitors, when there was a tap at her bedroom door, and the maid Eliza entered.

“If you please, miss,” said Eliza, and stopped.

“Yes, Eliza,” and the soft white hand remained suspended over the canvas, with the needle glittering between the taper fingers.

“If you please, miss, there’s that young man at the kitchen door.”

“That young man?”

“The soldier, miss; and he do look nice: Mr James Bell.”

There was a flush in Eliza’s face. It might have been that which fled from Claire’s, leaving it like ivory.

“Where is your master?”

“He went out on the parade, miss.”

“And Mr Morton?”

“Hush, miss! he said I wasn’t to tell. He bought two herrings of Fisherman Dick at the back door, and I believe he’ve gone to the end of the pier, fishing.”

“I’ll come down, Eliza.”

Eliza tripped off to hurry down to the handsome young dragoon waiting in the kitchen, and wonder whether he was Miss Claire’s sweetheart, and wish he were hers, for he did look so lovely in his uniform and spurs.

As soon as Claire was alone she threw herself upon her knees beside her bed, to rise up at the end of a minute, the tears in her eyes, and a troubled look covering her handsome face with gloom.

Then she hurried down, barely escaping Major Rockley, who did contrive to raise his hat and direct a smile at her before she was gone—darting in at the empty breakfast-room door, and waiting there trembling till the Major had passed the window and looked up in vain to see if she were there.

“What a coincidence,” she thought, as her heart beat painfully, and a smarting blush came in her cheeks.

But the Major was gone; there was no fear of encountering him now; and she hurried into the kitchen, where a handsome, bluff-looking, fair young man of goodly proportions, who sat stiffly upright in his dragoon undress uniform, was talking to Eliza, who moved from the table against which she had been leaning, and left the kitchen.

“Oh, Fred dear,” cried Claire, as the blond young soldier rose from his chair, took her in his arms, and kissed her tenderly.

“Why, Claire, my pet, how are you?” he cried; and Eliza, who had peeped through the key-hole, gave her foot a spiteful stamp.

“So miserable, Fred dear. But you must not come here.”

“Oh, I won’t come to the front, and disgrace you all; but hang it, you might let me come to the back. Getting too proud, I suppose.”

“Fred! don’t talk so, dear. You hurt me.”

“Well, I won’t, pet. Bless you for a dear, sweet girl. But it does seem hard.”

“Then why not try and leave the service, Fred? I’ll save all I can to try and buy you out, but you must help me.”

“Bah! Stuff, little one! What’s the good? Suppose I get my discharge. That’s the good? What can I do? I shall only take to the drink again. I’m not fit for anything but a common soldier. No; I must stop as I am. The poor old governor meant well, Clairy, but it was beggarly work—flunkey work, and it disgusted me.”

“Oh, Fred!”

“Well, it did, little one. I was sick of the fashionable starvation, and I suppose I was too fond of the drink, and so I enlisted.”

“But you don’t drink much now, Fred.”

“Don’t get the chance, little one,” he said, with a bluff laugh. “There, I’ll keep away. I won’t disgrace you all.”

“Dear Fred,” said Claire, crying softly.

“And I won’t talk bitterly to you, my pet. I say, didn’t I see the Major come in at the front?”

“Yes, dear. He went up to see Lady Teigne. She is at home this afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s right. Didn’t come to see you. Master comes in at the front to see the countess; Private James Bell comes in at the back to see you, eh?”

“Fred, dear, you hurt me when you talk like this.”

“Then I’ll be serious. Rum thing I should drift into being the Major’s servant, isn’t it? Makes me know him, though. I say, Clairy, you’re a beautiful girl, and there’s no knowing who may come courting.”

“Hush, Fred!”

“Not I. Let me speak. Look here: our Major’s one of the handsomest men in the town, Prince’s favourite, and all that sort of thing; but if ever he speaks to you, be on your guard, for he’s as big a scoundrel as ever breathed, and over head in debt.”

“Don’t be afraid, Fred,” said the girl, smiling.

“I’m not, pet. So the old girl’s at home, is she?”

“Yes.”

“Sitting in her diamonds and lace, eh?”

Claire nodded.

“Wish I had some of them instead of that old cat—hang her!—for I’m awfully short of money. I say, dear, can you let me have a few shillings?”

Claire’s white forehead wrinkled, and she looked at the young soldier in a troubled way, as she drew a little bead purse from her pocket, opened it, and poured five shillings into the broad hand.

“Thank ye,” he said coolly, as his eyes rested on the purse. Then, starting up—“Hang it, no,” he cried; “I can’t. Here, catch hold. Good—bye; God bless you!”

He thrust the money back into her hand, caught her in his arms and kissed her, and before she could detain him he was gone.

That afternoon and evening passed gloomily for Claire. Her father, when he returned from his walk, was restless and strange, and was constantly walking up and down the room.

To make matters worse, her visitor of that afternoon went by two or three times on the other side of the road, gazing very attentively up at the house, and she was afraid that their father might see him.

Then Major Rockley went by, smoking a cigar, raised his hat to her as he saw her at the window, and at the same moment as she returned his salute she saw Private James Bell on the other side, looking at her with a frown full of reproach.

Bedtime came at last, after a serious encounter between the Master of the Ceremonies and his son Morton for staying out till ten. Claire had to go to Lady Teigne again to give her the sleeping-draught she always took, eighty years not having made her so weary that she could sleep; and then there was the wine-glass to half fill with water, and quite fill with salad oil, so that a floating wick might burn till morning.

“Good-night, Lady Teigne,” said Claire softly.

There was no answer; and the young girl bent over the wreck of the fashionable beauty, thinking how like she looked to death.

Midnight, and the tide going out, while the waves broke restlessly upon the shingle, which they bathed with pallid golden foam. The sea was black as ink, with diamonds sparkling in it here and there reflected from the encrusted sky; and there was the glitter and sparkle of jewels in Lady Teigne’s bedchamber, as two white hands softly lifted them from the wrenched-open casket.

That floating wick in the glass of oil looked like the condensation of some of the phosphorescence of the sea, and in its light the jewels glittered; but it cast as well a boldly-thrown aquiline shadow on the chamber wall. Ching!

The jewels fell back into the casket as a gasp came from the bed, and the man saw the light of recognition in the eyes that glared in his as the old woman sat up, holding herself there with her supporting hands.

“Ah!” she cried. “You?”

The word “Help!”—a harsh, wild cry—was half formed, but only half, for in an instant she was dashed back, and the great down pillow pressed over her face.

The tide was going out fast.