The Master of the Ceremonies

Major Rockley picked up the whip, and brushed the dust from his uniform. He strove hard to make his convulsed face smooth and to force a smile, while he mastered the desire to writhe and utter impatient cries, so keen was the agony he felt.

“No,” he said, in a low hissing whisper, “you are a stronger man than I, and when we meet again it shall be on equal terms.”

He accompanied his words with a vindictive look that told Richard Linnell plainly enough how they would encounter next.

He repressed a shudder, and then a pang that seemed to pierce his heart shot through him, for with a malicious smile Rockley said:

“I did not know the lady had made an appointment with you. Of course, she had to keep up appearances. But there: I’ll say no more.”

He raised his cap mockingly, and went off across the cornfield, leaving Richard Linnell stung to the heart, his brow knit, and his eyes fixed upon Claire, who, white as ashes, and her face convulsed by the agony within her breast, crouched where she had sunk upon the lower steps of the stile.

Volume Two – Chapter Two.

“Impossible!”

“Claire – Miss Denville,” cried Richard Linnell, mastering the cruel thoughts suggested by Rockley’s words, “how dared that scoundrel insult you like this!”

“Hush!” said Claire agitatedly. “Don’t – pray don’t speak to me. I cannot bear it.”

“You are ill. You are faint. Let me help you over these bars and get you to one of the cottages.”

“No; I shall be better directly. Don’t speak to me now.”

She bent down, covered her face with her hands, and the tears came now in a passionate burst, while he went down on his knee beside her, laid one hand upon her arm, and, his doubts and suspicions all driven away by her grief, tried to whisper words of comfort as he bade her be calm.

Major Rockley had walked with jaunty military stride for the first two or three hundred yards with assumed calmness; then he gave vent to his rage in a torrent of oaths, and strode on rapidly out of sight, beating the air fiercely with his whip, and leaving the fields clear of his presence as Richard Linnell knelt by the sobbing girl.

“Miss Denville – Claire,” he said again, as he now possessed himself of her hand, while in his anger and remorse at having doubted her he poured forth his words in quick, excited tones.

“I had not thought to speak to you like this, and at such a time, but I cannot bear to see you weep – it cuts me to the heart, for I love you – Claire, dear Claire, I love you dearly as man can love.”

“Oh, hush, hush!” she moaned piteously, weak now with her emotion and the scene she had gone through.

“I must speak now,” he went on. “I have no opportunities of seeing you and telling you all I feel. Claire, I would have come and asked permission to address you, but I have been obliged to feel that my presence was not welcome to Mr Denville, and you – you have been so cold and distant to me of late.”

She did not speak, but kept one hand to her bent-down face, while he held the other tightly clasped in his.

“You do not speak,” he whispered. “Claire – you are not angry? I have suffered so – there, I confess – such jealous thoughts, such bitter cruel thoughts, though I had no right – no claim upon your love. But now, forgive me – only tell me – there was nothing between you and that man?”

She raised her head quickly, and dropped her hand.

“You ask me that!” she said proudly.

“Forgive me. You would if you knew all. I felt that you had come to meet him, and I was tortured with these jealous doubts, but I would not believe, and I came, as you saw. And now, Claire, one word – my love!”

Her eyes half closed as he drew her towards him; her lips trembled, and her colour went and came. Then, as if her memory, that had been veiled for the moment, tore aside the film of forgetfulness, she thrust him from her, and, with a look of anguish in her eyes, started to her feet.

“No, no!” she cried with a shiver; “it is impossible!”

“Hush! don’t say that,” he whispered. “Claire, I could not bear it. I know I am not well-to-do, but I love you. I cannot offer you a rich home, but I give you a love that is wholly yours. Don’t – don’t refuse me – don’t make me think that you despise me.”

“No, no, it is not that,” she sobbed wildly. “You must not speak to me. It is impossible.”

“Impossible?” he cried, holding her hands tightly.

“Yes, impossible.”

“No,” he said with a quiet smile, “it is not impossible. You will grow to the knowledge by-and-by that there is one who lives for your sake, whose every thought is yours, and these little obstacles will melt away when you know me as I am. Claire, I only ask for a little hope – to go away with the thought that I have no rival for your love.”

“Don’t speak to me – don’t think of me again!” she cried, with a wild look in her face. “Heaven bless you, Mr Linnell! Think well of me, whatever comes, but all that is over now.”

“Over? No, no; don’t say that. Claire – my love!”

He still held her hands in his, and as their eyes met her lips quivered, and her sweet face was drawn with anguish. It was a hard fight, but she conquered, and tearing herself away, she crossed the stile, and he saw her with bent head hurrying towards her home.

“It is impossible – impossible,” he muttered, as he stood leaning against the stile. “No; she may say that a thousand times, but I shall hold to my faith, and this affair will give me strength.”

He walked slowly homeward, dreaming for a time of Claire’s anguished face, and then the sight of a uniform brought back the thought of the Major, and the punishment he had received.

“Will he resent it?” he asked himself.

The answer was awaiting him later on at home, where he encountered Cora Dean just going out for a drive.

The pony-carriage was at the door, and there was nothing for it but to hand the ladies in, Mrs Dean receiving the attention with a most ungracious look, while Cora smiled and looked flushed and pleased as she drove off, with Sir Harry Payne, in Colonel Mellersh’s room, watching her with admiring eyes.

“Won’t be long, you know. Very kind of you to see me about it; as it’s his father he lives with,” said Sir Harry. “Handsome woman that, Colonel. Precious unfortunate, all this. I say, how lucky you were at the tables last night. Very handsome woman that. Ever act now, do you know?”

“Every day,” said Colonel Mellersh drily. “Here, I’ll ask Linnell to step in.”

Volume Two – Chapter Three.

No Better than a Fiddler

“But you can’t fight a fellow like that, Rockley,” said Sir Harry, who had been summoned to his brother-officer’s room.

“Not fight him? I’ll fight him, and kill him.”

“But he’s only a fiddler.”

“Enough of the gentleman for my purpose, I tell you,” roared Rockley fiercely. “I’ll kill him.”

“Nonsense, man alive. If you must meet, wing him, or pink him, or spoil the blackguard’s good looks. You can’t kill a man!”

“Can’t kill a man!” said the Major, in a low hissing voice; “can’t kill a man!”

“I say, Rockley! Hang it all, don’t look the diabolical like that: you give me the cold shivers. Why, I wouldn’t be called out by you on any consideration.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Rockley, with a ghastly attempt at mirth. “Did I look queer?”