Chapter V: Part 5

"Nonsense! Morton, are you mad? Are you going to throw away a fortune, and a great position in society? Of course, I do not say that such an event will follow, but it is time you began to assert your position. You did well the other day on the pier."

"Yes," said Morton with a sneer. "I fished out a dog. Now Dick Linnell did something worth--"

"Silence, sir! Do not mention his name in my presence, I beg," said the old man sternly; and he left the house.

"Well, I tell you what it is, Sis," said Morton, speaking from the window, where he had gone to see his father mince by, "the old dad hasn't been right since that night. I think he's going off his head."

There was no reply, and, turning round, it was to find that he was alone, for Claire, unable to bear the strain longer, had glided from the room.

Volume One, Chapter XIX.

MISS CLODE'S HERO.

No one would have called Miss Clode pretty, "but there were traces," as the Master of the Ceremonies said. She was thin and middle-aged now, but she had once been a very charming woman; and, though the proprietress of the circulating library at Saltinville, a keen observer would have said that she was a lady.

Richard Linnell entered her shop on the morning after the carriage accident, and a curious flush came into her little thin face. There was a light in her eye that seemed to make the worn, jaded face pleasanter to look upon, and it seemed as if something of the little faded woman's true nature was peeping out.

She did not look like the little go-between in scores of flirtations and intrigues; but as if the natural love of her nature had come to the surface, from where it generally lay latent, and her eyes seemed to say:

"Ah, if I could have married, and had a son like that."

It is the fashion, nowadays, for ladies to attempt a strong-minded _role_, and profess to despise the tyrant man; to take to college life and professorship; to cry aloud and shout for woman's rights and independence; for votes and the entry to the school board, vestry, and the Parliamentary bench; when all the time Nature says in her gentle but inflexible way: "Foolish women; it was not for these things that you were made to tread the earth."

Study! Yes, nothing is too abstruse, nowadays. The pretty maidens, who used to learn a little French with their music and drawing, now take to Greek and Latin and the higher mathematics, but they cannot stitch like their grandmothers.

"And," says a strong-minded lady, "are they any worse companions now for men than they were then?"

"Opinions are various, madam." I used to write that as a text-hand copy in a nicely-ruled book that I used to blot with inky fingers. You, madam, who claim your rights, surely will not deny me mine--to have my own opinion, which I will dare to give, and say:

"Yes; I think they have not improved. Somehow one likes softness and sweetness in a woman, and your classic young ladies are often very sharp and hard.

"If you combat my opinion upon the main idea of women's purpose here, add this to your study--the aspect of a woman when she is most beautiful.

"And when is that?--in her ball dress?--in her wedding costume?--when she first says `yes?'

"Oh, no; none of these, but when she is alone with the child she loves, and that sweet--well, angelic look of satisfied maternity is on her face, and there is Nature's own truth stamped indelibly as it has been from the first.

"Men never look like that. They never did, and one may say never will. It is not given to us, madam. Study that look; it is more convincing than all the speeches women ever spoke on woman's rights."

Just such a look was upon the face of little thin white-faced Miss Clode, as the frank, manly young fellow strode suddenly into her shop, making her start, change colour, and set down on the counter something she was holding, taking it up again directly with trembling hands.

"Ah, Miss Clode," he said cheerfully, "here I am again. Is it the weather, or are your strings bad?"

"Do they break so, then?" she said, hurriedly producing a tin canister, which refused to give up its lid; and Richard had to take it, and wrench it off with his strong fingers, when a number of oily rings of transparent catgut flew out on to the glass case.

"How clumsy I am," he said.

"No," she said softly; "how strong and manly. How you have altered these last ten years!"

"Well, I suppose so," he said, smiling down at the little thin, upturned, admiring face. "But you'll ruin me in strings, Miss Clode."

"I wish you would not pay for them," she said plaintively. "I get the very best Roman strings. I send on purpose to a place in Covent Garden, London, and they ought to be good."

"And so they are," he said, taking up half a dozen rings on his fingers and examining them to see which were the clearest, smoothest, and most transparent.

"But they break so," she sighed. "You really must not pay for these."

"Then I shall not have any," he said.

She gazed tenderly in his face, and her eyes were very intent as she watched him. Then, coughing slightly, and half turning away, she said gently:

"And your father--is he quite well?"

"Oh yes, thank you. Very well. Well as a man can be who has such a great idle, useless son."

Miss Clode shook her little curls at him reproachfully, and there was something very tender in her way as she cried, "You should not say that." Then, in a quiet apologetic manner, she lowered her tone and said:

"You can't help being so tall and strong and manly, and--and--and--I'm only an old woman, Mr Linnell," she said, smiling in a deprecating way, "and I've known you since you were such a boy, so I shall say it--you won't be vain--so handsome."

"Am I?" he said, laughing. "Ah well, handsome is that handsome does, Miss Clode."

"Exactly," she said, laying her hand upon his arm and speaking very earnestly, "and I have three--three notes here."

"For me?" he said, blushing like a woman, and then frowning at his weakness.

"Yes, Mr Linnell, for you."

"Tear them up, then," he said sharply. "I don't want them."

Miss Clode gave vent to a sigh of relief.

"Or no," he said firmly. "They were given to you to deliver. Give them to me."

She passed three triangular notes to him half unwillingly, and he took them, glanced at the handwritings, and then tore them across without opening them.

"No lady worth a second thought would address a man like that," he said sharply. "Where shall I throw this stuff?"

Miss Clode stooped down and lifted a waste-paper basket from behind the counter, and he threw the scraps in.

"We are old friends, Miss Clode," he said. "Burn them for me, please, at once. I should not like to be so dishonourable as to disgrace the writers by letting them be seen."

"People are talking about you so, sir."

"About me?" he cried.

"Yes, Mr Linnell; they say you behaved like a hero."

"Absurd!"

"When you swam out to the pony carriage and helped to rescue those--er-- ladies."

"My dear Miss Clode, would not any fisherman on the beach have done the same if he had been near? I wish people would not talk such nonsense."

"People will talk down here, Mr Linnell. They have so little else to do."

"More's the pity," said Richard pettishly.

"And is--is Mrs Dean quite well again, Mr Linnell?"

"Oh yes," he said coolly. "She was more frightened than hurt."

"Does Miss Dean seem any worse, sir? Does she look pale?"

The little woman asked these questions in a hesitating way, her hands busy the while over various objects on her counter.

"Pale--pale?" said Richard, turning over the violin strings and looking to see which were the most clear. "Really, I did not notice, Miss Clode."

"He would not speak so coolly if this affair had ripened into anything more warm than being on friendly terms," thought the little woman, and she seemed to breathe more freely.

"I'm afraid I've been very rude," continued the young man. "I ought to have asked after them this morning."

Miss Clode gave another sigh of relief.

"No one shall see those scraps, Mr Linnell," she said quietly; and the look of affectionate pride in him seemed to intensify. "It is quite right that a young gentleman like you should have some one to love him, but not in such a way as that."

"No," he replied shortly, and the colour came into his cheeks again, making them tingle, so that he stamped his foot and snatched up the violin strings again to go on with his selection. "There, I shall have these four," he said, forcing a smile, "and if they don't turn out well I shall patronise your rival, Miss Clode."

"My rival!" exclaimed the little woman, turning pale. "Oh, I understand. Yes, of course, Mr Linnell. Those four. Let me put them in paper."

"No, no. I'll slip them in this little case," he said, and he laid four shillings on the counter.

"I'd really much rather you did not pay for them," she protested, and very earnestly too.

"Then I won't have them," he said; and, with a sigh, Miss Clode placed the money in her drawer.

"I hope you were not one of the party who serenaded a certain lady on that terrible night of horrors, Mr Linnell," she said, smiling; and then, noticing quickly the start he gave, "Why, fie! I did not think you thought of such things."

"Yes; don't talk about it, I beg," he exclaimed. "It was by accident. I did not know I was going there."

"But surely, Mr Linnell, you don't think--Oh!"

She stood gazing at him with her lips apart.

"Miss Clode," he said firmly, "I do not confide to people what I think. Good-morning."

"No, no: stop," she said earnestly; and he turned, wondering at her tone of voice, and agitation.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Only--only--that I have known you so long, Mr Linnell, I can't help-- humbly, of course--taking a little interest in you--you made me feel so proud just now--when you tore up those foolish women's letters--and now--"

"Well, and now?" he said sternly.

"It troubled me--pray don't be angry with me--it troubled me--to think-- of course it was foolish of me, but I should not--should not like to see you--"

"Well, Miss Clode, pray speak," for she had stopped again.

"See you make an unworthy choice," she faltered.

"Miss Clode, this is too much," he said, flushing angrily, and he turned and left the shop, the little thin pale woman gazing after him wistfully and sighing bitterly as he passed from her sight.

"I'm--I'm very fond of him," she said as she wiped a few weak tears from her eyes. "Such a brave, upright, noble young fellow, and so gentle one moment, and so full of spirit the next. Dear, dear, dear, what a thing it is! He never wastes money in gambling, and wine and follies. Perhaps he would though, if he were as rich as the rest of them. And he ought to be."

She wiped her eyes again, and as she did so the woman's entire aspect changed. For just then Miss Cora Dean was driven by in a hired carriage, her dark eyes flashing, half veiled as they were by the long fringe of lashes, and then she was gone.

"Ah!" exclaimed Miss Clode angrily, "you are a beauty, sitting up there as haughty as a duchess, and your wicked old mother lying back there in her silks and satins and laces, as if all Saltinville belonged to you, instead of being drowned. But mind this, my fine madams, I may be only little Miss Clode at the library, but if you work any harm between you to those I love I'll have you both bundled neck and crop out of the place, or I'll know the reason why.

"A wretch!" she said, after a pause. "She'd like nothing better than to tempt him to follow her. But he won't! No; he's thinking of that girl Claire, and she is not half good enough for him. I don't like them and their fine ways. I don't like Denville with his mincing, idiotic airs. How that man can go about as he does with the stain of that poor old woman's death at his house astounds me.

"Well, poor wretch," she said scornfully, "it is his trade, as this miserable go-between business is mine. Perhaps he has fallen as low as I have; but I don't live as he does--as if he had thousands a year, when they are next door to starving and horribly in debt.

"Ah, well, it is to make a good show in his shop," she went on, speaking very bitterly--"to dress the window, and sell his girls, and start his boys.

"Nice bargain he has made in selling one. There's something more about that wretched little empty-headed child than I know, but I shall find out yet. Surely he does not think of that boy and Drelincourt. Oh, it would be too absurd. I've not seen the other brother lately. What a family! And for that boy to be taken with--oh, I must stop it if I can.

"Mrs Burnett? Yes, I must know about her. There was a great deal going on with that poor young artist who went away--and died. There was some mystery about that, I know, and--"

"What are you talking about, auntie? I thought there was some one in the shop, and came to see if you wanted me."

"Talking? I talking? Oh, nonsense, my dear. I was only thinking aloud."

"Well, auntie, it was very loud, for I heard you say you would have to find out something about Mrs Burnett."

"You heard me say that? Nonsense!"

"But I did, auntie; and, do you know, I could tell you something so funny about her."

"You could, child?" cried the little woman fiercely.

"Yes, and about Mr Richard Linnell, too."

Miss Clode caught the girl by the arm, and held her tightly while she seemed to be gasping for breath.

"About May Burnett? about Richard Linnell?"

"Yes, auntie, for do you know the other night as I was going down by the lower cliff to see if Fisherman Dick had--"

"Hush!" cried Miss Clode, pressing her arm so sharply that the girl winced. "Here she is."

Volume One, Chapter XX.

BARCLAY'S TENANTS.

"It was scandalous," Saltinville said, "that she should accept it."

But she did: a handsome little carriage that came down from Long Acre, and was sent round to the stables, where Cora Dean's ponies were put up and kept now on a shorter allowance of corn.

The note was a simple one, written in a very large hand that was decidedly shaky. There was a coronet on the top, and its owner, Lord Carboro', begged Miss Dean's acceptance of the little gift, with his sorrow that he was the cause of the mishap, and his congratulations that she was not hurt.

This was all very refined and in accordance with etiquette. The postscript looked crotchety.

"P.S.--Tell your people not to give them so much corn."

Cora did so, and said that she should drive out to show the people of Saltinville that she was no coward.

"Then I'll go with you, Betsy," said Mrs Dean, "to show 'em I ain't, too: and, you mark my words, this'll be the making of you in society."

So Cora took her drives as of old, found that she was very much noticed by the gentlemen, very little by the ladies, but waited her time.

The Deans lodged at one of the best houses in the Parade--a large, double-fronted place facing the sea, with spacious balcony and open hall door, and porch ornamented with flowers.

The little groom sprang down and ran to the ponies' heads as his mistress alighted, and after sweeping her rich dress aside, held out her hand for her mother, who got out of the carriage slowly, and in what was meant for a very stately style, her quick beady eyes having shown her that the windows on either side of the front door were wide open, while her sharp ears and her nose had already given her notice that the lodgers were at home--a low buzzing mellow hum with a wild refrain in high notes, announcing that old Mr Linnell was at work with his violoncello to his son's violin, and a faint penetrating perfume--or smell, according to taste--suggesting that Colonel Mellersh was indulging in a cigar.

Mrs Dean's daughter was quite as quick in detecting these signs, and, raising her head and half closing her eyes, she swept gracefully into the house, unconscious of the fact that Richard Linnell drew back a little from the window on one side of the door, and that Colonel Mellersh showed his teeth as he lay back in his chair beside a small table, on which was a dealt-out pack of cards.

"I should like to poison that old woman," said the Colonel, gathering together the cards.

"I wish Mr Barclay had let the first floor to some one else, Richard," said a low pleasant voice from the back of the room. _P-r-r-rm, Pr-um_!

The speaker did not say _Pr-r-rm, Pr-um_! That sound was produced by an up and down draw of the bow across the fourth string of the old violoncello he held between his legs, letting the neck of the instrument with its pegs fall directly after into the hollow of his arm, as he picked up a cake of amber-hued transparent rosin from the edge of a music stand, and began thoughtfully to rub it up and down the horse-hair of the bow.

The speaker's was a pleasant handsome face of a man approaching sixty; but though his hair was very grey, he was remarkably well-preserved. His well-cut rather effeminate face showed but few lines, and there was just a tinge of colour in his cheeks, such as good port wine might have produced: but in this case it was a consequence of a calm, peaceful, seaside life. He was evidently slight and tall, but bent, and in his blue eyes there was a dreamy look, while a curious twitch came over his face from time to time as if he suffered pain.

"It would have been better, father," said Richard Linnell, turning over the leaves of a music-book with his violin bow, "but we can't pick and choose whom one is to sit next in this world."

"No, no, we can't, my son."

"And I don't think that we ought to trouble ourselves about our neighbours, so long as they behave themselves decorously here."

"No, no, my son," said Linnell, senior, thoughtfully. "There's a deal of wickedness in this world, but I suppose we mustn't go about throwing stones."

"I'm not going to, father, and I'm sure you wouldn't throw one at a mad dog."

"Don't you think I would, Dick?" with a very sweet smile; and the eyes brightened and looked pleased. "Well, perhaps you are right. Poor brute! Why should I add to its agony?"

"So long as it didn't bite, eh, father?"

"To be sure, Dick; so long as it didn't bite. I should like to run through that _adagio_ again, Dick, but not if you're tired, my boy, not if you're tired."

"Tired? No!" cried the young man. "I could keep on all day."

"That's right. I'm glad I taught you. There's something so soul-refreshing in a bit of music, especially when you are low-spirited."

"Which you never are, now."

"N-no, not often, say not often, say not often. It makes me a little low-spirited though about that woman and her mother, Dick."

"I don't see why it should."

"But it does. Such a noble-looking beautiful creature, and such a hard, vulgar, worldly mother. Ah, Dick, beautiful women are to be pitied."

"No, no: to be admired," said Richard, laughing.

"Pitied, my boy, pitied," said the elder, making curves in the air with his bow, while the fingers of his left hand--long, thin, white, delicate fingers--stopped the strings, as if he were playing the bars of some composition. "Your plain women scout their beautiful sisters, and trample upon them, but it is in ignorance. They don't know the temptations that assail one who is born to good looks."

"Why, father, this is quite a homily."

"Ah, yes, Dick," he said, laughing. "I ought to have been a preacher, I think, I am always prosing. Poor things--poor things! A lovely face is often a curse."

"Oh, don't say that."

"But I do say it, Dick. It is a curse to that woman upstairs. Never marry a beautiful woman, Dick."

"But you did, father."

The old man started violently and changed colour, but recovered himself on the instant.

"Yes, yes. She was very beautiful. And she died, Dick; she died."

He bent his head over his music, and Richard crossed and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"I am sorry I spoke so thoughtlessly."

"Oh, no, my boy; oh, no. It was quite right. She was a very beautiful woman. That miniature does not do her justice. But--but don't marry a beautiful woman, Dick," he continued, gazing wistfully into his son's face. "Now that _adagio_. It is a favourite bit of mine."

Richard Linnell looked as if he would have liked to speak, and there was a troubled expression on his face as he thought of Claire Denville's sweet candid eyes; but he shrank from any avowal. For how dare he, when she had given him but little thought, and--well, she was a beautiful woman, one of those against whom he had been warned.

He looked up and found his father watching him keenly, when both assumed ignorance of any other matter than the _adagio_ movement, the sweet notes of which, produced by the thrilling strings, floated out through the open window, and up and in that of the drawing-room floor overhead, where on a luxurious couch Mrs Dean had thrown herself, while her daughter was slowly pacing the room with the air of a tragedy queen.

"Buzz-buzz; boom-boom! Oh, those horrid fiddlers!" cried Mrs Dean, bouncing up and crossing to the fireplace, where she caught up the poker; but only to have her hand seized by her daughter, who took the poker away, and replaced it in the fender.

"What are you going to do?"

"What am I going to do? Why thump on the floor to make them quiet. Do you suppose I'm going to sit here and be driven mad with their scraping! This isn't a playhouse!"

"You will do nothing of the sort, mother."

"Oh, won't I? Do you think I'm going to pay old Barclay all that money for these rooms, and not have any peace? Pray who are you talking to?"

"To you, mother," said Cora sternly; and the stoutly-built, brazen-looking virago shrank from her daughter's fierce gaze. "You must not forget yourself here, among all these respectable people."

"And pray who's going to? But I don't know so much about your respectability. That Colonel, with his queer looks like the devil in `Dr Faustus,' is no better than he should be."

"The Colonel is a man of the world like the rest," said Cora coldly.

"Yes, and a nice man of the world, too. And that old Linnell's living apart from his wife. I know though--"

"Silence!"

"Now look here, Betsy, I won't have you say _silence_ to me like that. This here isn't the stage, and we aren't playing parts. Just you speak to me proper, madam."

"Mother, I will not have you speak of Mr Linnell like that."

"Ho, indeed! And why not, pray? Now, look here, Betsy," she cried, holding up a warning finger, "I won't have no nonsense there. I'm not a fool. I know the world. I've seen you sighing and looking soft when we've passed that young fellow downstairs."

Cora's eyes seemed to burn as she fixedly returned her mother's look.

"Oh, you may stare, madam; but I can see more than you think. Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, making eyes at a poor, penniless fiddler, when you might--"

"I--I don't want to quarrel, mother," cried Cora, "but if you dare to speak to me again like that I'll not be answerable for myself."

"There!--there!--there! There's gratitude!"

"Gratitude? Where should I have been but for Mr Linnell's bravery, and which of the wretched dressed-up and titled dandies stirred to save me the other day? Richard Linnell is a brave, true-hearted man, too good to marry an actress."

"She's mad--she's mad--she's mad! There's grace; and to her mother, too, who's thought of nothing but getting her on in the world, and brought her forward, so that now she can live on the best of everything, in the handsomest of rooms, and keep her carriage. She flies in her poor mother's face, and wants to get rid of her, I suppose. Oho--oho-- oh!"

Mrs Dean plumped herself down into a gilded chair, and began to howl very softly.

"Don't be a fool, mother," said Cora. "I don't want to quarrel, I tell you, so hold your tongue."

"After the way I've brought her up, too," howled Mrs Dean--softly, so that the sound should not be heard downstairs.

"After the way you've brought me up!" cried Cora fiercely. "Yes; brought me up to be sneered at by every lady I meet--brought me up so that I hate myself, and long sometimes to be one of the poor women we see knitting stockings on the beach."

"Don't be a fool, Cory, my handsome, beautiful gal," cried Mrs Dean, suddenly starting up in her seat, dry-eyed and forgetful of her grief. "How can you be so stupid!"

"Stupid!" cried Cora bitterly. "Is it stupid to wish myself a woman that some true-hearted man could love, instead of looking forward to a life of acting."

"Oh, how you do go on to be sure. I am surprised at you, Cory. I know what you'd say about the life as them leads as ar'n't in the profession, but don't you be a fool, Betsy. `Your face is your fortune, sir, she said,' as the song says; working your fingers to the bone won't keep you out of the workus. Don't tell me. I know. I've known them as has tried it. Let them work as likes. I like a cutlet and a glass of fine sherry, and some well-made coffee with a noo-laid egg in it, and it ain't to be got by folks as works their fingers to the bone."

"And who wants to work their fingers to the bone, mother?" cried Cora, tearing off and flinging down her handsome feathered hat. "In every face I see there's the look--`You're only one of the stage-players--a rogue and a vagabond.' I want to lead some life for which I need not blush."

"As she needn't blush for! Oh, dear, oh, dear! When her father trod the boards and her mother was born on 'em! What a gal you are, Betsy," said Mrs Dean, who professed high good humour now, and she rocked herself to and fro, and pressed her hands on her knees as she laughed. "Oh, I say, Cory, you are a one. You will act the injured fine lady in private life, my dear. Why, what a silly thing you are. Look at that hat you've chucked down. Didn't it cost five guineas?"

"Yes, mother, it cost five guineas," said Cora wearily.

"And you can have whatever you like. Oh, I say, my lovely gal, for you really are, you know, don't get into these silly fits. It's such stuff. Why, who knows what may happen? You may be right up atop of the tree yet, and how about yon folks as passes you by now? Why, they'll all be as civil and friendly as can be. There, there, come and kiss me, ducky, we mustn't quarrel, must we? I've got my eyes open for you, so don't, don't, there's a dear. I know what these things means--don't go chucking yourself at that young Linnell's head."

"Let Mr Linnell alone, mother."

"But I can't, my luvvy; I know too well what these things mean. Why, there was Julia Jennings as was at the Lane--it was just afore you was born. There was a dook and a couple of lords, and carridges and horses, and livery suvvants, and as many jewels and dymonds and dresses as she liked to order; and if she didn't kick 'em all over and marry a shopman, and lived poor ever after. Now do, my luvvy, be advised by me. I know what the world is, and--Gracious goodness! there's somebody coming up the stairs."

Mrs Dean threw herself into an attitude meant to be easy, and Cora smoothed her knitted brows as there was a knock at the door, and, after a loud "Come in," a neat-looking maid entered.

"Mr Barclay, please, ma'am."

"Show him up, Jane," said Mrs Dean sharply; and then, as the door closed, "The old rip's come after his rent. How precious sharp he is."

"Morning, ladies," said Barclay. "I heard you were in. Glad to see you are no worse for your accident the other day."

He glanced at Cora, who bowed rather stiffly, and said "Not at all."

"I can't say that, Mr Barclay. I'm a bit shook; but, as I said to my daughter, I wasn't going to show the white feather, and the ponies go lovely now."

"Well, I'm glad of that."

"And I'm so much obliged to you for helping of me. Do you know, it was just like a scene in a piece we--er--saw once at the Lane."

"Oh, it was nothing ma'am, what I did. Miss Dean, there, she took off all the honours. No cold, I hope."

Cora did not answer.

"Plucky fellow, young Linnell; but poor, you know, poor."

"So I've heard," said Mrs Dean maliciously. "I was thinking of sending him ten guineas."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, ma'am," said Barclay.

"Oh, well, I must say _thankye_ some other way. Very kind of you to call. I said to my daughter, `There's Mr Barclay come for his rent,' but I was wrong."

"Not you, ma'am," said Barclay, whose eyes were rapidly taking in the state of the room. "Business is business, you know," and he took another glance at the rich furniture and handsome mirrors of the place.

"Oh, it's all right, Mr Barclay. We're taking the greatest care of it all, and your rent's all ready for you, and always will be, of course."

"Yes, yes, I know that, ma'am. I've brought you a little receipt. Saves trouble. Pen and ink not always ready. I keep to my days. So much pleasanter for everybody. Nice rooms, ain't they?" he added, turning to Cora.

"Yes, Mr Barclay, the rooms are very nice," she said coldly and thoughtfully.

"Anything the matter with her?" said Mr Barclay, leaning forward to Mrs Dean, and taking the money she handed in exchange for a receipt. "Not in love, is she?"

Mrs Dean and her visitor exchanged glances, and smiled as Cora rose and walked to the window to gaze out at the sea, merely turning her head to bow distantly when the landlord rose to leave.

"I'm a regular scoundrel, 'pon my soul I am," said Josiah Barclay, rubbing his nose with the edge of a memorandum book; "but they pay very handsomely, and if I were to refuse to let a part of a house that I furnish on purpose for letting, without having the highest moral certificates of character with the people who want the rooms, I'm afraid I should never let them at all. Bah! it's no business of mine."

He went back to the front door and knocked, to be shown in directly after to where Colonel Mellersh was sitting back in his chair, having evidently just thrown down the pack of cards.

"Morning, Shylock," he said, showing his white teeth. "Want your pound of flesh again?"

"No, thank ye, Colonel; rather have the ducats. I say, though, I wish you wouldn't call me Shylock. I'm not one of the chosen, you know."

"That I'll take oath you're not, Barclay," said the Colonel, looking at his visitor with a very amused smile. "Your future is thoroughly assured. I'm sorry for you, Barclay, for I don't think you're the worst scoundrel that ever breathed."

"I say, you know, Colonel, this is too bad, you know. Come, come, come."

"Oh, I always speak plainly to you, Barclay. Let me see; can you let me have a hundred?"

"A hundred, Colonel?" said the other, looking up sharply; "well, yes, I think I can."

"Ah, well, I don't want it, Barclay. I know you'd be only too glad to get a good hold of me."

"Wrong, Colonel, wrong," said Barclay, chuckling as he glanced at the cards. "You do me too much good for that."

"Do I?" said the Colonel, smiling in a peculiarly cynical way. "Well, perhaps I do influence your market a little. There," he said, taking some notes from his little pocket-book, and handing them to his visitor, "now we are free once more."

"Thankye, Colonel, thankye. You're a capital tenant. I say, by the way, after all these years, I shouldn't like to do anything to annoy you: I hope you don't mind the actors upstairs."

"No," said the Colonel, staring at him.

"Because if you did complain, and were not satisfied, I'd make a change, you know."

"Don't trouble the women for my sake," said the Colonel gruffly. "Look here, Barclay, how would you play this hand?"

He took up the cards as he spoke, shuffled them with an easy, graceful movement, the pieces of pasteboard flying rapidly through his hands, before dealing them lightly out upon the table, face upwards, and selecting four thirteens.

"Now," he said, "look here. Your partner holds two trumps--six, nine; your adversaries right and left have knave and ace; B on your right leads trumps--what would you do?"

Barclay knit his brow and took the Colonel's hand, gazing from one to the other thoughtfully, and then, without a word, played the hand, the Colonel selecting those cards that would be played by the others till the hand was half through, when Barclay hesitated for a moment, and then seemed to throw away a trick.

"Why did you do that?" said the Colonel sharply.

"Because by losing that I should get the next two."

"Exactly!" cried the Colonel with his eyes flashing. "That endorses my opinion. Barclay, I shan't play against you if I can help myself. Money-lending seems to sharpen the wits wonderfully. What a clever old fox you are!"

"One's obliged to be clever now a days, Colonel, if one wants to get on. Well, I must go. I have to see your neighbours. Rents are very bad to get in."

"I suppose so," said the Colonel drily. "Good-morning."

"I wonder what he makes a year by his play," said Barclay to himself, as he went back to the front door to knock for the third time. "I believe he plays square, too, but he has a wonderful head, and he's practising night and day. Now for old Linnell."

He was shown into Mr Linnell's room the next minute, to find that he was expected, and that he was gravely and courteously received, and his rent paid, so that there was nothing for him to do but say "Good-morning." But Josiah Barclay's conscience was a little uneasy, and in spite of the fact that his tenant was far from being a rich man, there was something in his grave refined manner that won his respect.

"Wish you'd come and see us sometimes, Mr Linnell, just in a friendly way, you know. Chop and glass o' sherry with Mrs Barclay and me; and you'd join us too, Mr Richard, eh?"

"Thank you, Mr Barclay, no," said Richard's father; "I never go out. Richard, my son, here, would, I dare say, accept your invitation."

"Oh, but can't you too, eh? Look here, you know, you're a man who loves bits of old china, and I've quite a lot. Really good. Come: when shall it be?"

"Don't press me now, Mr Barclay," said his tenant gravely. "Perhaps some other time."

"Then you're offended, Mr Linnell. You're a bit hipped because of the other lodgers, you know."

"Mr Barclay, I have made no complaints," said the elder Linnell quietly.

"No, you've made no complaints, but you show it in your way, don't you see. It wasn't for me to be too strict in my inquiries about people, Mr Linnell. I'm sorry I offended you; but what can I do?"

"Mr Barclay has a perfect right to do what he pleases with his own house," replied the elder Linnell with dignity. "Good-day."

"Now I could buy that man up a hundred times over," grumbled Barclay as he walked away, richer by many pounds than when he started on his journey that morning; "but he always seems to set me down; to look upon me with contempt; and young Richard is as high and mighty as can be. Ah, well, wait a bit!--`Can you oblige me with fifty pounds, Mr Barclay, on my note of hand?'--and then p'raps they'll be more civil.

"Things ain't pleasant though, just now. One house made notorious by a murder, and me letting a couple of actresses lodge in another. Well, they pay regular, and I dare say she'll make a good match somewhere before long; but I'm afraid, when the old lady gets to know they're stage people, there'll be a bit of a breeze."

Volume One, Chapter XXI.

DICK CATCHES SHRIMPS.

There was quite a little crowd at the end of the pier to see Fisherman Dick and some others busy with boathooks searching for the fragments of Cora Dean's pony carriage, and for want of something better to stare at, the fastening of a rope to first one pair of wheels and then to the other, and the hauling ashore, formed thrilling incidents.

Two rich carriage-cloaks were cast ashore by the tide, miles away, and the rug was found right under the pier, but there were several articles still missing. Cora's reticule, containing her purse and cut-glass scent-bottle; a little carriage-clock used by Mrs Dean, who was always very particular about the lapse of time, and that lady's reticule and purse.

It was Fisherman Dick's special task to search for them when the tide was low, and this he did by going to work as a setter does in a field, quartering the ground and hunting it all over to and fro.

But Fisherman Dick did his work with a shrimping-net, and one day he took home the little carriage-clock and showed it to his wife.

Another day he found Mrs Dean's reticule, and caught a great many shrimps as well.

Then the tide did not serve for several days, and he had to wait, shaking his head and telling Mrs Miggles he was afraid the sand would have covered everything.

"Then give it up," said Mrs Miggles, who was trying to sew with the little girl in her lap, but was prevented by the tiny thing making dashes at her broad-brimmed silver spectacles, which it kept taking off and flourishing in one little plump hand.

"Well done, little 'un," cried the fisherman, grinning. "No, missus, I don't like being beat."

He went off, looking very serious, with his net over one shoulder, the creel over the other, and after going to and fro patiently waist and often breast deep, he was successful in finding Cora Dean's reticule, with its purse and cut-glass bottle; and that night he went home amply rewarded, Cora having been very generous, and Mrs Dean saying several times over that she wouldn't have believed that a great rough man like that would have been so honest.

"I declare, Betsy, he's just like a man in a play--the good man who finds the treasure and gives it up. Why, he might have kep' your puss, and my puss too, and nobody been a bit the wiser."

That was all that was missing; but every day for a week, during the times that the tide was low, Fisherman Dick was busy, pushing his shrimping-net before him, and stopping every now and then to raise it, throw out the rubbish, and transfer the few shrimps he caught to his creel.

It was not a good place for shrimping--it was too deep; but he kept on with his laborious task, wading out as far as ever he could go; and more than one of his fellow-mermen grinned at his empty creel.

"Why don't you try the shallows, Dick?" said one of the blue-jerseyed fellows, who seemed to be trying to grow a hump on his back by leaning over the rail at the edge of the cliff.

"'Cause I like to try the deeps," growled Fisherman Dick.

"Ah, you want to make your fortune too quick, my lad; that's plain."

Dick winked, and went home; and the next day he winked, and went out shrimping again, and caught very few, and went home again, put on his dry clothes, and said:

"Give us the babby."

Mrs Miggles gave him the "babby," and Dick took her and nursed her, smiling down at the little thing as she climbed up his chest, and tangled her little fingers in his great beard; while Mrs Miggles gave the few shrimps a pick over and a shake up before she consigned the hopping unfortunates to the boiling bath that should turn them from blackish grey to red.

"What is it, old man?" said Mrs Miggles; "sperrits?"

Fisherman Dick shook his head, and began to sing gruffly to the child about a "galliant" maiden who went to sea in search of her true "lovy-er along of a British crew."

"What is it, then--lace?"

Fisherman Dick shook his head again, and bellowed out the word "crew," the little child looking at him wonderingly, but not in the least alarmed.

"I never did see such an oyster as you are, old man," said Mrs Miggles. "You're the closest chap in the place."

"Ay!" said Fisherman Dick; and he went on with his song.

He went shrimping off the end of the pier for the delectation of the mincing crowd of promenaders twice more. Lord Carboro' saw him; so did Major Rockley and Sir Harry Payne. Sir Matthew Bray was too busy dancing attendance upon Lady Drelincourt to pay any attention.

The Master of the Ceremonies saw him too, as he bowed to one, smiled upon a second, and took snuff with a third; and several times, as he watched the fisherman wading out there, he followed his movements attentively, and appeared to be gazing without his mask of artificiality.

The man's calm, dreamy ways seemed to have an attraction, as if he were wishing that he could change places with him, and lead so simple and peaceful a life. And as he watched him, very far out now, Dick raised his net, emptied it, shook it with his back to the people, and then began to wade in quite another direction, going back no more to the ground off the pier.

The Master of the Ceremonies did not look himself that day, and twice over he found himself on the edge of the pier gazing out to sea, where everything seemed so peaceful and still.

There was a buzz of voices going on about him, but he heard nothing, till all at once a voice, quite familiar to him, exclaimed sharply:

"Well, what is it?"

"Message from Mr Barclay, sir."

"Well?"

"I took your note, sir, and he'll be glad to see you to-morrow morning at twelve."

"That will do. Now take the other."

Stuart Denville could not restrain himself as he heard those voices just behind, and it was as if some power had turned him sharply round to see Major Rockley in conversation with one of the private dragoons of his regiment.

The man had delivered his message to his master, and then turned stiffly to go, coming face to face with Denville, whose whole manner changed. He turned deadly pale, of an unwholesome pallor, and then the blood seemed to flush to his face and head. His eyes flashed and his lips parted as if to speak, but the dragoon saluted, turned upon his heel, and strode away.

"Anything the matter, Denville?" said the Major, who had seen something of the encounter.

"Matter, matter," said the old man hoarsely, and he now began to tremble violently. "No--no,--a little faint. You'll pardon me,--a chair,--a--"

The old man would have fallen, but the Major caught his arm and helped him to a seat, where a crowd of fashionables surrounded him, and did all they possibly could to prevent his recovery from his fit by keeping away every breath of air, and thrusting at him bottles of salts, vinaigrettes, and scents of every fashionable kind.

"What's the matter with the old fellow?" said the Major, as he twirled his moustache. "Could he have known about the note? Impossible; and if he had known, why should he turn faint? Bah! Absurd! The heat. He's little better than a shadow, after all."

Volume One, Chapter XXII.

A SURREPTITIOUS VISITOR.

"Major Rockley's servant to see you, miss."

Claire started from her seat and looked at Footman Isaac with a troubled expression that was full of shame and dread.

She dropped her eyes on the instant as she thought of her position.

It was four o'clock, and the promenade on cliff and pier in full swing. Her father would not be back for two hours, Morton was away somewhere, and it was so dreadful--so degrading--to be obliged to see her brother, the prodigal, in the servants' part of the house.

For herself she would not have cared, but it was lowering her brother; and, trying to be calm and firm, she said:

"Show him in here, Isaac."

"In here, miss?"

"Yes."

"Please ma'am, master said--"

"Show him in here, Isaac," said Claire, drawing herself up with her eyes flashing, and the colour returning to her cheeks.

The footman backed out quickly, and directly after there was the clink of spurs, and a heavy tread. Then the door opened and closed, and Major Hockley's servant, James Bell, otherwise Fred Denville, strode into the room; and Isaac's retreating steps were heard.

"Fred!" cried Claire, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing the handsome bronzed face again and again.

"My darling girl!" he cried, holding her tightly to his breast, while his face lit up as he returned her caresses.

"Oh, Fred!" she said, as she laid her hands then upon his shoulders and gazed at him at arm's length, "you've been drinking."

"One half-pint of ale. That's all: upon my soul," he said. "I say, I wish it were not wicked to commit murder."

If he had by some blow paralysed her he could not have produced a greater change in her aspect, for her eyes grew wild and the colour faded out of her cheeks and lips.

"Don't look like that," he said, smiling. "I shan't do it--at least, not while I'm sober; but I should like to wring that supercilious scoundrel's neck. He looks down upon me in a way that is quite comical."

"Why did you come, dear?" said Claire sadly. "Oh, Fred, if I could but buy you out, so that you could begin life again."

"No good, my dear little girl," he said tenderly. "There's something wrong in my works. I've no stability, and I should only go wrong again."

"But, if you would try, Fred."

"Try, my pet!" he said fiercely; "Heaven knows how I did try, but the drink was too much for me. If we had been brought up to some honest way of making a living, and away from this sham, I might have been different, but it drove me to drink, and I never had any self-command. I'm best where I am; obliged to be sober as the Major's servant."

There was a contemptuous look in his eyes as he said this last.

"And that makes it so much worse," sighed Claire with a sad smile. "If you were only the King's servant--a soldier--I would not so much mind."

"Perhaps it is best as it is," he said sternly.

"Don't say that, Fred dear."

"But I do say it, girl. If I had been brought up differently--Bah! I didn't come here to grumble about the old man."

"No, no, pray, pray don't. And, Fred dear, you must not stop. Do you want a little money?"

"Yes!" he cried eagerly. "No! Curse it all, girl, I wish you would not tempt me. So you are not glad to see me?"

"Indeed, yes, Fred; but you must not stay. If our father were to return there would be such a scene."

"He will not. He is on the pier, and won't be back these two hours. Where's Morton?"

"Out, dear."

"Then we are all right. Did you expect me?"

"No, dear. Let me make you some tea."

"No; stop here. Didn't you expect this?"

He drew a note from his breast.

"That note? No, dear. Who is it from?"

Fred Denville looked his sister searchingly in the face, and its innocent candid expression satisfied him, and he drew a sigh full of relief.

"If it had been May who looked at me like that, I should have said she was telling me a lie."

"Oh, Fred!"

"Bah! You know it's true. Little wax-doll imp. But I believe you, Claire. Fate's playing us strange tricks. I am James Bell, Major Rockley's servant, and he trusts me with his commissions. This is a _billet-doux_--a love-letter--to my sister, which my master sends, and I am to wait for an answer."

Claire drew herself up, and as her brother saw the blood mantle in her face, and the haughty, angry look in her eyes as she took the letter and tore it to pieces, he, too, drew himself up, and there was a proud air in his aspect.

"There is no answer to Major Rockley's letter," she said coldly. "How dare he write to me!"

"Claire, old girl, I must hug you," cried the dragoon. "By George! I feel as if I were not ashamed of the name of Denville after all. I was going to bully you and tell you that my superior officer is as big a scoundrel as ever breathed, and that if you carried on with him I'd shoot you. Now, bully me, my pet, and tell your prodigal drunken dragoon of a brother that he ought to be ashamed of himself for even thinking such a thing. I won't shrink."

"My dear brother," she said tenderly, as she placed her hands in his.

"My dear sister," he said softly, as he kissed her little white hands in turn, "I need not warn and try to teach you, for I feel that I might come to you for help if I could learn. There--there. Some day you'll marry some good fellow."

She shook her head.

"Yes, you will," he said. "Richard Linnell, perhaps. Don't let the old man worry you into such a match as May's."

"I shall never marry," said Claire, in a low strange voice; "never."

"Yes, you will," he said, smiling; "but what you have to guard against is not the gallantries of the contemptible puppies who haunt this place, but some big match that--Ah! Too late!"

He caught a glimpse of his father's figure passing the window, and made for the door, but it was only to stand face to face with the old man, who came in hastily, haggard, and wild of eye.

Fred Denville drew back into the room as his father staggered in, and then, as the door swung to and fastened itself, there was a terrible silence, and Claire looked on speechless for the moment, as she saw her brother draw himself up, military fashion, while her father's face changed in a way that was horrible to behold.

He looked ten years older. His eyes started; his jaw fell, and his hands trembled as he raised them, with the thick cane hanging from one wrist.

He tried to speak, but the words would not come for a few moments.

At last his speech seemed to return, and, in a voice full of rage, hate, and horror combined, he cried furiously:

"You here!--fiend!--wretch!--villain!"

"Oh, father!" cried Claire, darting to his side.

"Hush, Claire! Let him speak," said Fred.

"Was it not enough that I forbade you the house before; but, now--to come--to dare--villain!--wretch!--coldblooded, miserable wretch! You are no son of mine. Out of my sight! Curse you! I curse you with all the bitterness that--"

"Father! father!" cried Claire, in horrified tones, as she threw herself between them; but, in his rage, the old man struck her across the face with his arm, sending her tottering back.

"Oh, this is too much," cried Fred, dropping his stolid manner. "You cowardly--"