The Master of the Ceremonies

Fred groaned, and the old man went on, clutching him now by the arm as he spoke, gazing fiercely in his eyes the while.

“I waited till all were sleeping, and the time seemed to have come, and then, like a thief, I stole out of my room and along the passage, till I was outside the door where the old woman – poor old wreck of a woman – lay. It was only to borrow those diamonds for a time, and I meant to replace them, though I knew that I was little better than a thief – a cold-blooded, treacherous thief – to deal thus with the woman who trusted to my honour for her safety. But I was so sorely pressed for money, I said to myself; and keeping my creditors quiet meant placing Morton and Claire both well in life, and then my troubles would cease. Do you hear me?”

“Yes – I hear,” groaned Fred.

“I stood there on the mat outside her door thinking that, and that it would be for Claire’s sake; and as I thought that, I saw her sweet, pure face before me, as it were, her eyes looking into mine; and I said: ‘How can I ever look into those eyes openly again?’ I felt that I was still a gentleman, but that in a few minutes I should be a despicable thief. Then I raised my hand to open the door, always unfastened so that Claire might go in and out, but it dropped to my side, and I sank upon my knees and prayed for strength to resist temptation, and the strength I asked was given.”

The old man paused, for there was a step outside in the stone passage, and it seemed that the gaoler was coming there; but he passed on, and Denville gripped his son’s arm more tightly.

“I don’t know how long I knelt there, but I was rising with the temptation crushed, and as I rose I was going back to my room.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Fred excitedly, and he breathed more freely.

“Back to my room, boy, when I seemed to be roused from the stupor brought on by my agony of mind, for there was a sound in the countess’s chamber. I listened, and there it was again. It was a confused sound, as if she were moving in her bed, and I thought she must be ill, and want Claire. I was about to go and rouse her, when there were other sounds; there was a loud crash, and I stood as if turned to ice.”

“You heard sounds!” gasped Fred; and he looked horror-stricken and shrinking as his father seemed to grow in strength.

“Yes,” whispered the old man fiercely, as he seemed to fix Fred Denville with his eye; “I heard sounds that froze me with horror, as I felt that my temptation had been in the shape of a warning of evil, and that another was at work in the poor old woman’s room. For a few minutes I could not stir. Then, mastering my horror and fear, and calling myself coward, I hurried into the room, to find myself face to face with him who had entered before. I saw all at a glance, as a hoarse groan came from the bed – the curtain torn aside, and the murderer by the dressing-table, with the jewel-casket in his hand.”

“You saw all this?” cried Fred, white as ashes now. “Father, you saw this?”

“Everything, as I dashed – old weak man as I was – at the wretch who had done this thing. It was only a momentary struggle, and I was thrown down, and saw him dart to the folding-doors and pass through. I staggered after him in time to hear him overturn a pot or two in the verandah, as he swung himself over and slid down the pillar. Then I was alone panting there in that chamber of death; for as I took the candle from the little stand, and drew aside the curtain, it was to gaze down upon the starting eyes of the strangled woman – dead in my house, under the protection of my roof; and, with the horrible thought upon me that only a brief while back I was nearly entering that chamber to play the part of thief, I gave no alarm, but shrank towards the door, and stole out trembling, bathed with sweat, to get back to my room, and try to think out what I should do.”

Fred Denville groaned, and the old man’s breath went and came with the sound of one who has been hunted till he stands at bay.

“I had not been there a minute before I heard steps; a light shone beneath my door, and I sat trembling, utterly prostrated, for I knew that it was Claire who had been alarmed. I wanted to go out and stop her, to set her on her guard; but I sat there as if suffering from nightmare, unable to move, even when she came at last and summoned me; and, like one in a dream, I listened to what she had to say, and followed her to the murdered woman’s room. I could not stay her; I could do nothing. I dared not give the alarm; I dared not speak, but went with her, and saw all again in a dazed, confused way, till I noticed something on the floor, which I snatched up and hid from Claire; and then the confusion was gone – driven away by the agony I felt. My God, what agony, as I read in Claire’s eyes that she believed I had done that deed!”

“She believed this of you?”

“Yes; and believes it still,” groaned the prisoner.

“But – but,” cried Fred excitedly, “what was it you snatched from the floor?”

“A knife; a knife I knew. One that I had seen before.”

“But the murderer – you saw him?”

“Plainly as I see you.”

“But you did not summon help.”

“I could not.”

“I knew you were innocent,” cried Fred excitedly. “I swore you were.”

“I am,” said the old man coldly.

“Should you know the wretch again?” panted Fred.

“Yes; too well.”

“But you did not say this at the inquest.”

“My lips were closed.”

“But, father, you do not – ”

“Silence, hypocrite! Enough of this. I could not speak. I dare not tell the world the murderer was my own son.”

Fred Denville drew himself erect. His father rose from the bed, and the two men stood gazing for some minutes in each other’s eyes without a word.

It was the Master of the Ceremonies who broke the spell.

“Now,” he said, “I have spoken. It is enough. Your secret is safe with me. Go. Repent, but do not ask me to forgive you. Ask that of Heaven. I am old and broken, and can die.”

“But, father!” groaned Fred wildly, “it was not I.”

“It was my eldest son. I saw him as he struggled with me – in his uniform, and I picked up afterwards from the floor his knife – his pocket-knife that had been used to wrench open the casket of jewels. The knife with ‘RM’ on the handle. It was given to my son by the fisherman, Miggles.”

“Yes, Dick gave me that knife years ago,” said Fred, speaking like one who has received a tremendous blow. “I have not seen it since that night.”

“No,” said the old man bitterly; “it lies far out beyond the end of the pier, buried deep in sand by now.”

Fred Denville stood holding his hands pressed to his head, staring straight before him at the whitewashed wall, while neither spoke.

The silence was broken by the rattling of bolts and the turning of a key, when the gaoler threw open the door, and, without a word, the dragoon walked, or rather reeled, from the cell, as if he had taken strong drink till his senses were nearly gone.

Volume Three – Chapter Sixteen.

Blow for Blow

Fred Denville went straight to Barclay’s, and was admitted, Claire looking at him reproachfully as he threw himself into a chair.

“Oh, Fred!” she cried, “and at such a time!”

“Not been drinking,” he said; “not been drinking. How’s May?”

“Very ill, dear,” said Claire sadly. “Here?”

“Yes, Mrs Barclay insisted upon her being brought, so that we could be together.”

“God bless her,” said Fred softly. Then, after a pause – “I’ve seen the old man.”

“And you are friends, Fred?”

He shook his head, and sat staring down at the carpet. “But you tried to be, dear?”

“Yes; tried hard. I’ve been. I’ve done my duty – for once,” he said with a strange laugh.