It was just such a visit that Mrs Barclay paid Claire Denville about a
fortnight later; and after one of her extremely warm embraces, she
exclaimed: "Guess."
"Guess what, Mrs Barclay?"
"Who's married. There, you needn't blush, my dear, because yours is
fixed all right at last, but you'll never guess who."
"Then tell me," said Claire, smiling. "No, guess."
"I cannot. There are so many."
"Then I will tell you. No, no: you're too late," she cried, as Richard
Linnell hurriedly entered; "I've brought the news."
"You've told her then that Cora Dean is married?"
"Now what a shame, Mr Richard," cried Mrs Barclay. "I hadn't time to
say it, but I was just going to tell her. But she doesn't know who to,
and I will tell her that. Colonel Mellersh, my dear."
"Colonel Mellersh!" cried Claire.
"Yes," said Richard Linnell. "I have just received this from him. A
message from them both."
Claire opened her lips to speak, but her eyes fell upon Richard
Linnell's thoughtful face, and it was he who spoke next, and said
slowly:
"No: now I come to think of it all, I am not surprised."
Of course, Saltinville talked a great deal about this match, but the
worthies of the place talked more about another wedding that took place
six months later--a wedding at which Lord Carboro' insisted upon being
the bridegroom's best man.
It was upon that occasion, after returning from the church, that Lord
Carboro' took a casket from his pocket and placed it in Claire's hands.
"The old jewels, my dear, that I have prized because you refused them
once before. God bless you! and I know He will."
The old man turned quickly away with his face working, and crossed to
the Master of the Ceremonies, who was looking very much his old self, in
his meagrely furnished drawing-room, and tapped him half angrily upon
the shoulder.
"Hang it all, Denville," he cried, "can't you see I've forgotten my
snuff-box, and am dying for a pinch? The old box, sir--His Royal
Highness's box. Hah! That's better," he ejaculated, after dipping his
thin white finger and thumb in the chased gold box, "a friend at a
pinch, eh, Denville, eh? Damme, sir, your young wits and beaux don't
often beat that, eh? The old school's passing away, Denville, eh?
passing away."
"With the noblemen who are your lordship's contemporaries."
"Tut-tut-tut! Denville, don't. Never mind the lordship. We must be
better friends, man--better friends for our little fag ends of troubled
lives. Hush! No more now. This is the bride and bridegroom's day."
There were many strangers who, visiting Saltinville, were ready to smile
at the tottering white-haired beau, so elaborately dressed, and who, not
from need, but from custom, clung to his old habits and received
visitors as Master of the Ceremonies still. It was a quaint old
fiction, and he used to glory in his fees, now they were only wanted for
a purpose he had in view.
There were other laughs too ready to be bestowed upon the palsied old
nobleman in the dark wig, who met the Master of the Ceremonies every
morning on the Parade, and took snuff with him as they flourished their
canes, and flicked away fancied spots of dust. Their high collars and
pantaloons and Hessian boots, all came in for notice. So did those
wonderful beaver hats, black for winter, white for summer, which were
lifted with such a display of deportment, in return to the salutes of
those who were taking the air. It was always the same: they met at the
same hour, at the same spot, took snuff, chatted upon the same themes,
and then strolled down to the end of the pier talking of how "times have
changed, sir: times have changed."
"Who's him, sir--old chap in the black wig, and a face like a wooden
nut-cracker? Oh, he's old Lord Carboro'."
"And the other?" said the stranger, who had been questioning Fisherman
Dick, as the old men passed them by.
"T'other, sir? Ah, I could tell you a deal about him. That's the
Master o' the Ceremonies, that is. I could tell you a long story about
he."
And so he did.