The Master of the Ceremonies

“I cannot bear it,” he moaned; and then, “Barclay would do it for me. He is secret as the tomb. He never speaks. If he did, what reputations he could blast.”

So easy; the old woman took her opiate every night, and slept till morning. She would not miss the cross – yes, that would be the one – no, a bracelet better. She never wore that broad bracelet, Claire said, now she had realised that her arms were nothing but bone.

“Am I mad?” cried the old man, starting up again. “Yes, what is it?”

“Messenger from Mr Barclay, sir, to say he will call to-morrow at twelve, and he hopes you will be in.”

“Yes, yes, Isaac; say yes, I will be in,” said the wretched man, sinking back in his chair with the perspiration starting out all over his brow. And then, as he was left alone, “How am I to meet him? What am I to say?” he whispered. “Oh, it is too horrible to bear!”

Once more he started to his feet and walked to the window and looked out upon the sea.

Diamonds – glittering diamonds as far as eye could reach, and the Master of the Ceremonies, realising more and more the meaning of the word temptation, staggered away from the window with a groan.

Volume One – Chapter Three.

The Flickering Flame

“Draw the curtains, my dear, and then go into the next room, and throw open the French window quite wide.”

It was a mumbling noise that seemed to come out of a cap-border lying on a pillow, for there was no face visible; but a long thin elevation of the bedclothes, showing that some one was lying there, could be seen in the dim light.

Claire drew the curtains, opened a pair of folding-doors, and crossed the front room to open the French window and admit the sweet fresh air.

She stepped out into the balcony supported by wooden posts, up which a creeper was trained, and stood by a few shrubs in pots gazing out at the brilliant sea; but only for a few moments, before turning, recrossing the skimpily furnished drawing-room, and going into the back, where the large four-post bedstead suddenly began to quiver, and the bullion fringe all round to dance, as its occupant burst into a spasmodic fit of coughing.

“He – he – he, hi – hi – hi, hec – hec – hec, ha – ha – ha! ho – ho! Bless my – hey – ha! hey – ha! hugh – hugh – hugh! Oh dear me! oh – why don’t you – heck – heck – heck – heck – heck! Shut the – ho – ho – ho – ho – hugh – hugh – window before I – ho – ho – ho – ho!”

Claire flew back across the drawing-room and shut the window, hurrying again to the bedside, where, as she drew aside the curtains, the morning light displayed a ghastly-looking, yellow-faced old woman, whose head nodded and bowed in a palsied manner, as she sat up, supporting herself with one arm, and wiped her eyes – the hand that held the handkerchief being claw-like and bony, and covered with a network of prominent veins.

She was a repulsive-looking, blear-eyed old creature, with a high-bridged aquiline nose that seemed to go with the claw-like hand. A few strands of white hair had escaped from beneath the great mob of lace that frilled her nightcap, and hung over forehead and cheek, which were lined and wrinkled like a walnut shell, only ten times as deeply.

“It’s – it’s your nasty damp house,” mumbled the old woman spitefully, her lips seeming to be drawn tightly over her gums, and her nose threatening to tap her chin as she spoke. “It’s – it’s killing me. I never had such a cough before. Damn Saltinville! I hate it.”

“Oh, Lady Teigne, how can you talk like that!” cried Claire. “It is so shocking.”

“What! to say damn? ’Tisn’t. I’ll say it again. A hundred times if I like;” and she rattled out the condemnatory word a score of times over, as fast as she could utter it, while Claire looked on in a troubled way at the hideous old wretch before her.

“Well, what are you staring at, pink face! Wax-doll! Baby chit! Don’t look at me in that proud way, as if you were rejoicing because you are young, and I am a little old. You’ll be like me some day. If you live – he – he – he! If you live. But you won’t. You look consumptive. Eh?”

“I did not speak,” said Claire sadly. “Shall I bring your breakfast, Lady Teigne?”

“Yes, of course. Are you going to starve me? Mind the beef-tea’s strong this morning, and put a little more cognac in, child. Don’t you get starving me. Tell your father, child, that I shall give him a cheque some day. I haven’t forgotten his account, but he is not to pester me with reminders. I shall pay him when I please.”

“My father would be greatly obliged, Lady Teigne, if you would let him have some money at once. I know he is pressed.”

“How dare you! How dare you! Pert chit! Look here, girl,” cried the old woman, shaking horribly with rage; “if another word is said to me about money, I’ll go and take apartments somewhere else.”

“Lady Teigne! You are ill,” cried Claire, as the old woman sank back on her pillow, looking horribly purple. “Let me send for a doctor.”

“What!” cried the old woman, springing up – “a doctor? Don’t you mention a doctor again in my presence, miss. Do you think I’d trust myself to one of the villains? He’d kill me in a week. Go and get my beef-tea. I’m quite well.”

Claire went softly out of the room, and the old woman sat up coughing and muttering.

“Worrying me for money, indeed – a dipperty-dapperty dancing-master! I won’t pay him a penny.”

Here there was a fit of coughing that made the fringe dance till the old woman recovered, wiped her eyes, and shook her skinny hand at the fringe for quivering.

“Doctor? Yes, they’d better. What do I want with a doctor? Let them get one for old Lyddy – wants one worse than I do, ever so much. Oh, there you are, miss. Is that beef-tea strong?”

“Yes, Lady Teigne, very strong.”

Claire placed a tray, covered with a white napkin, before her, and took the cover from the white china soup-basin, beside which was a plate of toast cut up into dice.

The old woman sniffed at a spoonful.

“How much cognac did you put in?”

“A full wine-glass, Lady Teigne.”

“Then it’s poor brandy.”

“No, Lady Teigne; it is the best French.”

“Chut! Don’t talk to me, child. I know what brandy is.”

She threw some of the sippets in, and began tasting the broth in an unpleasant way, mumbling between the spoonfuls.

“I knew what brandy was before you were born, and shall go on drinking it after you are dead, I dare say. There, I shan’t have any more. Give it to that hungry boy of yours. He looks as if he wanted it.”

Claire could not forbear a smile, for the old woman had not left half a dozen spoonfuls at the bottom of the basin.

“Look here. Come up at two o’clock and dress me. I shall have a good many visitors to-day, and mind this: don’t you ever hint at sending up Eliza again, or I’ll go and take apartments somewhere else. We’re getting proud, I suppose?”

There was a jingle of the china on the tray as the old woman threw herself down, and then a mumbling, followed by a fit of coughing, which soon subsided, and lastly there was nothing visible but the great cap-border, and a few straggling white hairs.

At two o’clock to the moment Claire went upstairs again, and for the space of an hour she performed the duties of lady’s-maid without a murmur, building up the old relic of a bygone fashionable generation into a presentable form. There was an auburn set of curls upon her head, with a huge tortoise-shell comb behind. A change had been wrought in her mouth, which was filled with white teeth. A thick coating of powder filled up some of her wrinkles, and a wonderful arrangement of rich lace draped her form as she sat propped up in an easy-chair.

“Now my diamonds,” she said, at last; and Claire fetched a casket from the dressing-table, and held a mirror before the old lady, as she wearied herself – poor old flickering flame that she was! – fitting rings on her thin fingers, the glittering necklet about her baggy throat, the diadem in her hair, and the eardrops in the two yellow pendulous adjuncts to her head.

“Shall I do, chit?” she said, at last.

“Yes,” said Claire gravely.

“Humph! You don’t look pleased; you never do. You’re jealous, chit. There, half draw down the blinds and go, now. Leave the room tidy. I hate to have you by me at times like this.”

Claire helped her to walk to the drawing-room, arranged a few things, and then left the room with the folding-doors closed, and it seemed as if life and youth had gone out of the place, leaving it to ghastly old age and death, painted with red lips and white cheeks, and looking ten times more awful than death in its natural solemn state.

Then for two hours fashionable Saltinville rattled the knocker, and was shown up by Isaac, in ones, and twos, and threes, and told Lady Teigne that she never looked better, and took snuff, and gossiped, and told of the latest scandals about Miss A, and Mr B, and Lord C, and then stopped, for Lord C came and told tales back; and all the while Lady Teigne, supported by Lady Drelincourt, her sister, ogled and smiled, and smirked under her paint and diamonds, and quarrelled with her sister every time they were left for a few minutes alone.