The Master of the Ceremonies

Morton did not answer for a few moments, struggling as he was with intense emotion, and the Master of the Ceremonies looked at him keenly now. His face changed directly, though, as Morton threw his arms round him and stood with his head bowed down upon the old man’s shoulder.

“I’m glad: very glad. Egad, Morton, my son,” said Denville, trying to assume his old parade manner, but with his piping voice quavering, and sounding forced and strained, “you make me feel very proud of you. It is, of course – yes, egad – of course – a very painful thing for a gentleman – an officer – to have to visit – a relative in prison – a man situated as I am – to a man in your position, it is a terrible thing – and – and you’ll pardon me – my son – I could not have felt – er – surprised if you had – stayed away; but – but – you have come; and – God bless you, my boy – my boy.”

The old man would have sunk upon his seat quivering with emotion, but Morton held him in his clasp.

“No, no, father,” he said with spirit, “you must not give way. We must meet this trouble like men. You must advise with me. I’ve been playing the boy too long. There, sit down and let’s talk. What shall I do about your trial?”

Denville took his son’s hand, and looked at him proudly, but he shook his head.

“What do you mean, father?” cried Morton, the lad flushing and looking manly as he spoke. “This is no time for indecision. I have seen Mr Barclay and Mr Linnell. They have engaged counsel, and what we want now is your help over your defence.”

Denville smiled sadly, and again shook his head,

“No, my boy, no,” he said, “you can do nothing. It is very brave and true of you.”

“But, father – ”

“Hush, my son! Let me speak and act as my knowledge and experience dictate. I am glad you have come, for you have been much in my mind; and I want to get you as free as I can from this horrible disgrace.”

“My dear old father, don’t think of me,” pleaded Morton, “but of yourself.”

“Of myself, my boy? No, I am only an old worn-out stock, and I am quite resigned to my fate – to my duty. I am old; you are young. There is your future to think of, and your sister’s. Look here – ”

“But, my dear father,” cried Morton, “I must insist. I am only a mere boy, I know, but I am forced to take command.”

“Not yet, Morton; I have not resigned. You’ll pardon me, my son – wounded, but not unfit to command – as yet. Morton, my boy, Lord Carboro’ has always been my friend. Go to him, my son, and ask him to use his influence to get you an exchange into some other regiment. Try foreign service, my boy, for a few years. It will be taking you clear of the stain upon our name. Claire has friends, I have no fear for her – good, true woman. It is about you I am concerned. You must exchange and get right away from here. Go at once. Carboro’ will see the necessity, and advise and help you.”

“And leave you here in prison – in peril of your life; charged with a crime you did not commit? Father, you don’t know me yet.”

The old man’s lip quivered, and he grasped his son’s hand firmly.

“It is my wish, my boy. For your sake and for your sister’s,” he said firmly. “You must go at once.”

“And leave you here – like this, father?”

“Yes, my boy – it is my fate,” said the old man sadly. “I can bear it. You must go.”

“And leave Fred in his trouble?”

“Silence! Don’t name him. Don’t let me hear his name again,” said the old man, firing up.

But it was only a flash of the old fire which died out at once, and he grew pale and weak again, his head sinking upon his breast.

“Father!” cried Morton, “I can’t bear this. You are too bitter against poor Fred, and it seems doubly hard now.”

“Hush! Say no more, my boy. You do not know,” cried the old man angrily. “You do not know.”

“It is you who do not know, father. You have not heard that he has been shot down.”

“Fred – my son – shot?”

“Yes, while attempting to escape from arrest, father. He is dangerously wounded. Forgive me for telling you at such a time, but you seem so hard upon him.”

“Hard, my boy? You do not know.”

“I know he is dangerously wounded, and that he is your son.”

“My God!” muttered Denville, with his lip quivering – “a judgment – a judgment upon him for his crime.”

“And that in his misery and pain he raised his voice bravely to try and save you, father, by charging himself with the murder of Lady Teigne.”

“What?” cried the old man excitedly. “Fred – my son – charged himself with this crime?”

“Yes; he boldly avowed himself as the murderer.”

“Where – where is he?” cried Denville excitedly.

“In the infirmary; weak with his wound. Father, you will forgive the past, and try to be friends with him when – when you meet again.”

The Master of the Ceremonies looked up sadly in his son’s face and bowed his head slowly.

“Yes,” he said sadly; “I will try – when we meet again. But tell me, my boy,” he cried agitatedly; “they do not believe what he says – this – this charge against himself?”

“No; they look upon it as what it is – a brave piece of self-denial to save his father from this terrible position. Oh, father! you did not think he could be so staunch and true.”

“They don’t believe it,” muttered Denville. “No; they would not. It does not alter the situation in the least. I shall suffer, and he will be set free.”

“You shall not suffer, father,” cried Morton impetuously. “Surely there is justice to be had in England. No, I will not have you give way in this weak, imbecile manner. There: no more now; I must go, and I shall consult with your friends.”

“No; I forbid it,” cried the old man sternly. “You will not be disobedient to me now that I am helpless, Morton, my son. You cannot see it all as I see it.”

“No, father; I hope I see it more clearly.”

“Rash boy! you are blind, while it is my eyes that are opened. Morton, one of us must die for this crime. I tell you I could not live, knowing that I did so at the expense of your brother who had gone, young in years and unrepentant, to his account.”

“Unrepentant, father?”

“Hush, hush, my boy! No more. I can bear no more.”

“Time, sir,” said the voice of the gaoler, and Morton went sadly back to join his sisters.

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty.

Under Pressure

“Father, I am nearly mad with grief and horror. I come to you for help – for comfort. What shall I do?” cried Claire, sinking upon her knees before him on her next visit to the prison.

“What comfort can I give you, child?”