The Master of the Ceremonies

his arms again and held her to his breast,whilst she clung to him as if he were her only hope, and so theyremained in silence for a time.

  At last he loosed himself from her embrace, and stood over her as shecrouched down upon the sofa.

  "I'm going there now, Claire," he said, "but before I go, have youanything to say to me about that night of the murder? Is there anythingI ought to know, so as to be able to talk to the old man about hisdefence? Will he tell me all he knows about the affair--why, Claire,child, what is the matter--are you going wild?"

  He caught her two hands, and held her, startled by the change which hadcome over her, as she shrank from him in horror, with eyes dilated, facedrawn and lips apart.

  "There, my little girl," he said, with rough tenderness, "I ought tohave known better than to talk to you about it. Perhaps all will comeright yet after all."

  Claire seemed to be so prostrated that it was some time before heattempted to leave her, and then it was upon her urging, for she seemedat last to rouse herself to action, and with feverish haste bade him go.

  "It is your duty, Fred," she said agitatedly, "but--but don't questionhim--don't say a word to him. Only go to him as the son to the fatherin terrible distress. Let him speak to you if he will."

  "But his defence, girl, his defence. Something must be done, and I amwithout a guinea in the world."

  "Mr Barclay--Mr Linnell are arranging that without his knowledge,"said Claire. "I had forgotten to tell you, Fred: my head seems confusedand strange."

  "No wonder, little one," he said. "Ah, I like that Barclay. One neverknows who are our friends until trouble comes--and young Linnell. Itisn't a time to talk about such things now, Clairy; but young Linnell'sa good fellow, and he thinks a great deal of you."

  Claire joined her hands as if begging him to be silent, and he once morekissed her, and after begging Mrs Barclay to watch over her, hurriedaway.

  Volume Three, Chapter XV.

  FATHER AND SON.

  James Bell, dragoon, otherwise Fred Denville, the disgraced prodigal ofthe Master of the Ceremonies' home, had a couple of shillings in hispocket as he strode towards the prison; and as he was on his way,low-spirited and despondent at the troubles of his house, a great thirstcame upon him, and he felt that he could never go through the scene hehad to encounter without a stimulant in some form.

  Then he thought of what a curse drink was to him, and how he could nottake one glass without wanting another, and many others, and with thisthought he manfully passed the first public-house.

  But, as he passed, the door was swung open, and the hot, spiritous odourof strong drinks floated out and half maddened him.

  "Just one glass would tighten me up," he muttered, "and I could gothrough with it better."

  He thought of his last interview with his father, their struggle, andhow he had nearly struck him, and he shrank from what was to come.

  "I can't help it," he said. "I must have a drop. It will steady afellow's nerves. Good God! how horrible to go and see that old mancharged with murder."

  He had thought a great deal about it before, but now the whole affairstruck him as if in a new light, and the examinations, the trial, andthe following of that trial came upon him with a terrible force thatfrightened him. It had never seemed so horrible before, and he burstout in a cold perspiration as in imagination he saw the white bared headof the old man, with wild eyes and ghastly face--saw him in the grey ofsome chilly morning, pinioned and with the white-robed priest by hisside, walking towards--

  It was too horrible! A curious feeling of blind terror made him shiverand hurry on, as something seemed to whisper in his ear, "He did murderthat wretched old woman, and he must suffer for his crime."

  "Curse me, I must have some brandy, or I shall never be able to facehim," he gasped, as he strode on, no longer the stern, upright,well-built cavalry soldier, but a bent, trembling man, at whom more thanone passer-by looked askance. He even reeled, and albeit perfectlysober, he evoked comments upon "these drunken soldiers" in the streets.

  "It is too horrible," he said again. "I never saw it like this before;"and, hurrying on with unsteady step, he was making straight for apublic-house he knew, when, on turning a corner, he suddenly encounteredMajor Rockley.

  The meeting was so sudden that he had passed him before he rememberedhis duty to salute his superior; but the encounter brought with it aflood of recollections of the night of Mrs Pontardent's party, and theremembrance of his helplessness, and of the pangs he had suffered as heawoke to the fact, as he believed, that the sister he almost worshippedwas in the power of a relentless scoundrel. This cleared the mentalfumes that were obscuring his intellect, and, drawing himself up, hestrode on straight past the public-house door and on to the prisongates.

  "It's time I acted like a man," he said to himself, "and not like acowardly brute."

  He was provided with a pass, and, in ignorance of the fact that Rockleyhad turned and was watching him, following him, and standing at adistance till he saw him enter the gates, he rang, presented his paper,and was ushered along the blank stone passages of the prison till hereached the cell door.

  "One minute," whispered Fred, wiping the drops from his forehead, as asudden trembling fit came over him. Then, mastering it, and drawinghimself up, he breathed heavily and nodded to the gaoler.

  "I'm ready," he said hoarsely: "open."

  The next minute he was standing in the whitewashed cell with the doorclosed behind him, locked in with the prisoner and half choked withemotion, gazing down at the bent grey head.

  For the Master of Ceremonies was seated upon a low stool, his armsresting upon his knees, and his hands clasped between them, probablyasleep. He had not heard the opening and closing of the door, and ifnot asleep, was so deaf to all but his own misery that Fred Denvillefelt that he must go and touch him before he would move.

  The young man's breast swelled, and there was a catching in his breathas he looked down upon the crushed, despondent figure, and thought ofthe change that had taken place. The light from the barred windowstreamed down upon him alone, leaving the rest of the cell in shadow;and as Fred Denville gazed, he saw again the overdressed leader of thefashionable visitors mincing along the Parade, cane in one hand,snuff-box in the other, and the box changed to the hand holding the canewhile a few specks of snuff were brushed from the lace of hisshirt-front.

  Then he looked back farther, and seemed to see the tall, important,aristocratic-looking gentleman, to whom people of quality talked, and ofwhom he always stood in such awe; and now, with this came therecollection of his boyish wonder how it was that his father should beso grand a man abroad while everything was so pinched and miserable athome.

  Back flitted his thoughts as he stood there, looking down at themotionless figure, to the encounter when he had been surprised by hisfather with Claire. The terrible rage; the fit; the horrible hatred anddislike the old man had shown, and the unforgiving rancour he haddisplayed.

  Fred Denville sighed as it all came back, but he felt no resentment now,for his breast was full of memories of acts of kindness that had beenshown him as a boy, before he grew wild and resisted the paternal hand,preferring the reckless soldier's life to the irksome poverty andpretence of the place-seeker's home and its pinching and shams.

  "Poor old dad!" he said to himself, as the tears stood in his eyes; "heis brought very low. Misery makes friends. God help him now!"

  The stalwart dragoon, moved by his emotion, took a couple of quick stepsforward and went down upon one knee by the old man's side, took hishands gently in both of his own, and held them in a firm, strong clasp,as he uttered the one word--

  "Father!"

  The touch and the voice seemed to galvanise the prisoner, who startedupright, gazing wildly at his son, and then shrank back against the wallwith his hands outstretched to keep him off.

  There was a terrible silence for a space, during which Fred Denvilleremained upon his knee, then slowly joining his hands as he lookedplea
dingly in his father's face, he said slowly:

  "Yes, I know I have been a bad son; I have disgraced you. But, father,can you not forgive me now?"

  The old man did not speak, but shrank against the wall, looking upon himwith loathing.

  "Father," said Fred again, "you are in such trouble. It is so dreadful.I could not stay away. Let us be friends once more, and let me helpyou. I will try so hard. I am your son."

  Again there was that terrible silence, during which the old man seemedto be gathering force, and the look of horror and loathing intensifiedas he glared at the man humbling himself there upon his knee.

  "Do you not hear me?" cried Fred, piteously. "Father: I am your son."

  "No!" exclaimed Denville, in a low, hoarse