The Master of the Ceremonies Part 36

"I can't help it, Jo-si-ah. That man, whenever I meet him, makes me begin to boil. So smooth, and polite, and smiling, and squeeze-your-handy, while all the while he's laughing at you for being so fat."

"Laughing at me for being so fat?"

"No, no. You know what I mean--laughing at me myself for being so fat.

I 'ate him."

"Well, I don't want you to love him, old lady."

"I should think not, indeed, with his nasty dark eyes and his long black mustarchers. Ugh! the monster. I 'ate him."

"Handsomest man in Saltinville, my dear."

"Handsome is as handsome does, Jo-si-ah. He's a black-hearted one, if ever there was one, I know."

"Now, you don't know anything of the kind, old girl."

"Oh, yes, I do, Jo-si-ah. I always feel it whenever he comes anigh one, and if I had a child of my own, and that man had come and wanted to marry her, I'd have cut her up in little pieces and scattered them all about the garden first."

"Well, then, I suppose I ought to be very, very glad that we never had any little ones, for, though I should be very glad to get rid of you--"

"No, you wouldn't, Jo-si-ah," said Mrs Barclay, showing her white teeth.

"Yes, I should, but I shouldn't have liked to see you hung for murder."

"Don't talk like that, Jo-si-ah. It gives me the shivers. That word makes me think about old Lady Teigne, and not being safe in my bed."

"Stuff and nonsense!"

"It isn't stuff and nonsense, Jo-si-ah. I declare, ever since that dreadful affair, I never see a bolster without turning cold all down my back; and I feel as if it wasn't safe to put my head upon my pillow of a night. There: he's ringing because you're so long."

"Then I shall be longer," growled Barclay, putting a wafer in his mouth.

"How that poor Claire Denville can stop in that house of a night I don't know."

"Ah, that puts me in mind of something: I wish you wouldn't be so fond of that Claire Denville."

"Why not? I must be fond of somebody."

"Be fond of me, then, I'm ugly enough."

"So I am fond of you, Jo-si-ah, and you are not ugly, and I should like to hear anyone say you were to my face."

"I don't like that Denville lot."

"No more do I, Jo-si-ah, only poor dear Claire. Her father ain't bad, but she's as good as gold."

"I don't know so much about that," muttered Barclay.

"And now, Jo-si-ah, just you be careful with that Major Rockley. He owes you a lot now."

"Yes, but I've got him tight enough."

"And if you let him have more you get him tighter. He's a bold, bad man, always gambling and drinking, and doing worse."

"Oh, I'm very fond of him, old lady," said Barclay, chuckling. "I love him like a son, and--there he is again. I must go now."

It was only into the next room, but there were double doors, and as Barclay entered the Major's countenance did not look at all handsome, but very black and forbidding.

"Come, Barclay," he cried, with a smile; "I thought you were going to put me off. Here, I've been hard hit again. I'm as poor as Job, and I must have a hundred."

For answer Barclay shrugged his shoulders, took out a fat pocket-book, and began to draw out the tuck.

"Put that away," cried the Major impatiently; and he gave the book a flick with his riding-whip, but not without cutting right across Barclay's fingers, and making a red mark.

The money-lender did not even wince, but he mentally made a mark against his client's name, intimating that the cut would have to be paid for some day or another.

"I know all about that. I've had five hundred of you during the past two months. Never mind that; the luck must turn sometime. Cards have been dead against me lately. That Mellersh has the most extraordinary luck; but I shall have him yet, and we'll soon be square again. Come, I want a hundred."

"When?"

"Now, man, now."

"Can't be done, Major, really."

"Don't talk nonsense, man. I tell you I must have it."

"Your paper's getting bad, Major. Too much of it in the market."

"Look here, Barclay; do you want to insult me?"

"Not I, sir; never thought of such a thing."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I mean? Only that you've had five hundred pounds of my money during these last three months."

"For which you hold bills for seven hundred and fifty."

"You put down five hundred pounds now in Bank of England notes, Major Rockley, and you shall have the lot."

"Then you do mean to insult me, sir?"

"No, Major."

"What do you mean, then?"

"Only that I won't part with another five-pound note till I get some of that money back."

Major Rockley's dark brows came down over his eyes as he glared at Barclay with a peculiarly vindictive expression, while the money-lender thrust his hands deep down into his drab breeches' pockets, and whistled softly.