The Master of the Ceremonies Part 52

There had been times of late when the entanglement of his younger son's position in the regiment, with an elder brother a private in the ranks, had half driven him mad, keeping him awake night after night; and Claire had lain weeping despairingly as she had heard him pace his room, but the horrible difficulty he had been antic.i.p.ating did not seem to come home, and he waited for the Nemesis that would some day arrive, hoping that he might be allowed time to complete his plans before the bolt fell.

He sat one morning, deciding with Claire to whom invitations were to be issued. Lady Drelincourt would come of course, as Lord Carboro' would be there, and several other notables had been invited.

"Then the officers of the regiment, of course."

Claire half rose and looked in her father's face.

"We must forget that, my child," he said imploringly. "Major Rockley is a gentleman, and he has in some sort apologised to Morton. He told me so. To leave him out would be to insult him. He must be asked. His good sense will keep him away. You must ask Colonel Mellersh, too. He is a great friend of Colonel Lascelles."

"You will ask Mr and Mrs Barclay, father?" said Claire.

"Oh, yes, we must. Dreadfully vulgar people, but it is a necessity."

Claire sighed as she thought of what was behind Mrs Barclay's vulgarity, and the note was written.

A couple of days pa.s.sed, and everyone without exception had expressed his or her intention of being present, when, as he was on the Parade, Colonel Mellersh met the MC, and said:

"By the way, Denville, I want you to invite my young friend Linnell to your party."

"I shall be charmed," said Denville, with a smile, for he could not refuse; and in due course Richard Linnell received an invitation and replied.

A little farther on, Denville came upon Lady Drelincourt in her chair.

"Ah, Denville, bad man," she said, tapping him with her folded fan. "I feel as if I could not come to your house. My poor dear sister!"

The houses on the Parade seemed to reel before the MC's eyes.

"But one cannot grieve for ever. I shall come. Have you asked that wicked Rockley?"

Denville bowed.

"And Sir Matthew Bray?"

"All the officers whom duty will allow are coming."

"That's well; and now, Denville, you must send an imitation with apologies to Mrs Pontardent."

"Lady Drelincourt!"

"I can't help it. She wishes to come, and I have promised that she shall."

The result was that Mrs Pontardent was invited, and in turn she expressed a wish that her dear friends the Deans, whom Mr Denville had introduced to her, should not be left out.

The Master of the Ceremonies had the deciding who should be in society, and who should not; and here he was making a stand when Lord Carboro'

came up--it was on the pier--and was appealed to by Mrs Pontardent.

"Oh, yes, Denville," he said good-humouredly; "ask Mrs and Miss Dean."

The Master of the Ceremonies ruled the roost, but he was everybody's slave; and, in this case, the only way out of the difficulty after they had been neglected so long was to call with Claire and invite them personally.

"If you wish it, papa," Claire said, when spoken to on the subject.

"I do not, my dear," he replied, with a sigh. "My position compels it."

They went trembling: Claire in agony lest she should encounter Richard Linnell; her father about the expenses into which he was drifting, for the tradespeople were giving him broad hints, especially the confectioner, that money must be forthcoming if the refreshments were to be supplied.

Cora Dean's eyes flashed with pride and jealousy as the visitors were shown in, but she received Claire courteously, and the wonderfully different pair were left together by the open window, while Mrs Dean drew the Master of the Ceremonies aside.

"I am pleased, Mr Denville," she whispered. "This is real good of you.

I knew you would get us into society at last. Mrs Pontardent has been very kind, but she ain't everybody. I wanted my Bet--my Cora--to meet my Lady Drelincourt and the other big ones. After this, of course, it's all plain sailing, and we shall go on. I say, just look at 'em."

Denville turned with a sigh towards the bay window where Claire and Cora were seated, talking quietly, but with eyes that seemed to fight and fence, as if each feared the other.

"You go into a many houses and don't see such a pair as that."

"Your daughter is a beautiful woman, Mrs Dean."

"_Lady_," said the latter correctively; "and so's yours, only too cold and pale. And now, look here, Denville, as friends--I know what's what."

"Really, Mrs Dean, you puzzle me."

"Hush! Don't speak so loud. Look here, you've done me a thoroughly good turn, and I'm a warm woman, and not ungrateful. As I said before, I know what's what--Parties ain't done well for nothing, and expenses comes heavy sometimes. If you want to borrow thirty or forty pounds-- there, stuff! you must have your fees. I'm going to put half a dozen five-pound notes under the chany ornament in the back room. You can look round and admire the rooms and get it."

His spirit rebelled, but his breeches pocket gaped horribly, and wincing in spirit, he rose and went forward to talk to Cora in his society way, starting, in spite of himself, as he heard the c.h.i.n.k of china on marble, while, after a time, he began in the most graceful way to gaze through his eyegla.s.s at the pictures and china from Mr Barclay's ample store, ending by securing the notes in the most _nonchalant_ way.

After letting a sufficient time elapse, the Denvilles took their leave, and Mrs Dean broke out in ecstasy:

"There, Betsy, at last. You'll be a real lady now."

"Yes, mother," said Cora dreamily.

"I say, Denville isn't a bad one, only he has to be paid."

"It's the custom, mother."

"Oh, yes. You know what 'Amlet says, as your poor father used to make jokes about, and call breeches; but I say, isn't she a milk-and-water chit beside you, my gal? Didn't you feel as if you 'ated her?"

"No, mother," said Cora thoughtfully. "She's different to what I expected. I don't think she'll live."

"Don't talk like that. Now, let's see what about your noo dress."

"And yours, mother?"

"Of course. And feathers."

And as this conversation went on, Stuart Denville and his daughter Claire walked homeward, the latter with the gloom deepening, so it seemed, over her young life, the former with the six crisp notes riding lightly in his pocket, and the load of misery and shame growing heavier day by day.

Volume Two, Chapter XII.