The Master of the Ceremonies is a Webnovel created by George Manville Fenn.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“It’s a terrible blow for Mr Denville, of course, ma’am; and they say the young gentleman who has only just joined the dragoons is horribly put out, and challenged Sir Harry Payne, only the Colonel would not let them fight.”
“Dear–dear–dear! Poor Denville! he has nothing but misfortunes. I am sorry for him; I am indeed. Well, I must go; but mind this, Miss Clode: Claire Denville is a particular friend of mine, and no one shall say ill of her in my presence.”
There was a very strong resemblance to a ruffled hen, whose chickens had been looked at by a strange cat, in Mrs Barclay’s aspect as she left Miss Clode’s, while, at her aunt’s command, Annie, the bun-faced, moved a Berlin wool pattern on one side in the window so that she could command a view of the Parade from the bulging panes, and after watching there for a few minutes she said:
“She’s gone by, auntie.”
“Ah, with all her fuss, she daren’t keep up the acquaintance.”
“She has turned back and gone in, auntie.”
“Oh, very well, just as she likes; it is no business of mine.”
Annie, the innocent, was quite right, for Mrs Barclay had walked by the Denvilles’, and then stopped short, indignant with herself; turned back and given a good bold rap at the door, to which Isaac, who looked discontented and strange, replied, and said, before he was asked:
“Not at home.”
“Now don’t you talk nonsense to me, young man,” said Mrs Barclay, “because–“
“My master and mistress are–not–at–“
Isaac began to drag his works towards the last, for Mrs Barclay was rummaging in her reticule for a half-crown, but could only find a good old-fashioned crown, which she slipped into the footman’s hand.
To a man-servant who was beginning to look upon his arrears of wages as doubtful, a crown-piece was a coin not to be despised, and he took it and smiled.
“Mr Denville is out, I suppose, isn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I don’t want to see him, but just you go and ask Miss Claire to see me, and if she says no, you say I must see her. There!”
The result was that Mrs Barclay was shown into the drawing-room, where Claire rose to meet her with cold dignity, and pointed to a chair.
Instead of taking it, Mrs Barclay caught the girl in her arms, and gave her rapidly some half-dozen hearty kisses.
“There, my dear,” she said, “if every bit as I’ve heard was quite true, I should have come all the same; but as I don’t believe one single synnable of the pack o’ lies, I’ve come to see you. There!”
That _there_ came like an expiration of the breath as she plumped herself down, and the next minute Claire was upon her knees, her arms round the wide waist, and her face buried in the extensive bosom, sobbing violently, and relieving herself in tears of the pressure that had been crushing her down ever since the troubles of that terrible night.
“That’s right, my darling: you cry–cry hard. A good cup o’ tea and a good cry’s the greatest blessings o’ Providence for us poor suffering women. No, no: you needn’t put a hankychy between. My Jo-si-ah never stints me in dresses, and you may spoil a dozen of ’em if that’ll do you any good.”
“Mrs Barclay–Mrs Barclay!”
“No, no, no: you’re going to take and try and explain and a lot more of it; but I won’t hear a word. I tell you I don’t believe nothing of what’s about. I said if Miss Claire Denville did this or that, she had good reason, being like the mother of that family, as even manages her poor father, so I don’t want to hear no lying scandal.”
“Heaven bless you!” sobbed Claire, kissing her.
“Ah, that’s nice,” said Mrs Barclay, smiling. “My little girl died, my dear, as would have been as old as you. Not like you, of course, but it seems as if she might have kissed me like that. I’m a very vulgar sort of woman, I know, my dear, well enough: and if I didn’t I soon should, with people sneering at me as they do. You ain’t sorry I came?”
“Sorry? I can never say how it has touched me.”
“I’m very glad of it, for I don’t want to know. And now, not another word about all that, for I know everything, and how all the people are cutting you and your poor pa. But never you mind, my dear. Lots of the people you knew were very fine-weather friends, such as run away as soon as a storm blows. You’ve got a clear conscience, so don’t you take on about it, but live it down.”
“I shall try to,” said Claire, with a smile–the first that had been seen on her face for days.
“It’s what I often say to my Jo-si-ah, though I haven’t got a clear conscience through Barclay’s money transactions, which ought to be on his, but as I keep his books, and know everything, they trouble me all the same. So everybody’s cutting you, eh?”
“Yes,” said Claire sadly.
“Then you cut them till they beg your pardon. And now, my dear, just one word from a simple plain woman, whose heart’s in the right place.
If you want some one to confide in, or you want help of any kind, you know where Betsey Barclay lives, and that’s where there’s help, whether it’s a kind word, a cup o’ tea, or some one that you can put your arms round and cry upon, and whose purse is open to you, if you’ll excuse me for mentioning it.”
“Miss Dean, ma’am,” said Isaac, opening the door.
“Not at–“
“Which I thought you were receiving, ma’am,” said Isaac in defence.
Mrs Barclay rose to go, but Claire laid a hand upon her arm, and she resumed her seat as Cora Dean entered, elaborately dressed, and exchanged a most formal courtesy as the visitor rose once more.
Cora could not have explained her visit, even to herself. She hated Claire: she loved her. She was triumphant over her fall: she was sorry for her. She was certain that she would no longer find in her a rival, and in spite of this, she felt a curious sensation of soreness of heart.
She who had for a couple of years past been slighted by the fashionable folk of Saltinville, while Claire had been received everywhere, felt in the new flush of the success she had won a kind of triumph over an unfortunate sister, who would now, she knew, be socially ostracised; and in the plenitude of her own wealth of position she had told herself that she could afford to go and call upon the fallen rival, and, under the guise of politeness, see for herself how she bore her trouble, and a.s.sume a consolatory _role_ that she told herself she did not feel.
But Cora Dean, ill-educated and badly brought up, violent in her pa.s.sions and quick to dislike a rival, had a very kindly woman’s heart within her breast; and as soon as she had formally saluted Mrs Barclay, and had seen the sad, grave face that met hers, ready to suffer insult if it were offered in the guise of friendship, a change came over her, the tender heart leaped, and in full remembrance of their last parting, she advanced quickly and kissed Claire warmly.
There was no disguising the tears in her eyes, and they were infectious, for Mrs Barclay, whose feathers had been rising fast and her tongue sharpening into a point, heaved a tremendous sigh as she jumped up and exclaimed:
“It’s very little I know of you, Miss Dean, and–I’m a plain woman–I never thought I should like you; but if you wouldn’t mind, my dear!”
It was a kiss of peace, and Mrs Barclay added another that was very loud and very warm.
“And her saying that she had no friends,” she exclaimed. “Pooh!”
Claire darted a grateful look at both, and then began to wince and shrink as Mrs Barclay, in all well-meaning, went on talking from one to the other with the most voluble of tongues.
“I declare,” she cried, “as I said to my Jo-si-ah, there’s no end to the nasty scandals talked in this miserable town.”
“Pray say no more, Mrs Barclay,” cried Claire; “I am so grateful to you both for coming here, but–“
“I won’t say much, my dear, but I must tell Miss Dean, or I shan’t be able to bear myself. What we want here is a great high tide to come all over the place and wash it clean.”
“Why, we should be drowned, too, Mrs Barclay,” said Cora, laughing.
“I hope not, my dear, for I’m no lover of scandal; but do you know, they actually have had the impudence to say that my dear Claire here has been seen at her back door talking to a common soldier.”
Claire tried to control herself, but her eyes would stray to Cora Dean’s and rest there as if fascinated.
“When the reason is,” continued the visitor, as Claire was asking herself should she not boldly avow her connection, “the reason is that she has been seen talking to her brother, who is not a common soldier, but an officer. What do you think of that?”