The Master of the Ceremonies

Mrs Barclay had bidden her walk as far as the pier, and in all obedience she had done as she was told, reaching the pier entrance; and then, attracted she knew not how or why by the darkness and silence, she turned on to the wooden edifice, and began to walk swiftly along the planked floor.

It was very dark that night, only at the end there was a single light that shone brightly, and in her confused state this seemed to be the star of hope leading her on.

She had not had the slightest intention of going there, but in a rapt dreamy way she walked on and on, the vacant place seeming strange. The last time she had stood on the pier it had been thronged with well-dressed promenaders, but that was months – it seemed years – ago, while endless horrors had taken place since then.

How calm – and still it all was where she walked, while below among the piles the sea softly ebbed and flowed and throbbed, seeming full of whisperings and voices that were hushed lest she should hear the words they said.

She walked on and still on, and it occurred to her once that it was along here that beautiful Cora Dean’s ponies had dashed, taking her over the end into the sea, from which Richard Linnell, so brave and honest, had saved her. She had often heard how the crowd cheered him – Richard Linnell. Cora loved him and was jealous of her, and yet she had no cause to be, for the events of the terrible night – the night of the ghastly serenade – killed that for ever.

Why did she think of all this now? She could not tell. It came. She felt that she was not answerable for her thoughts – hardly for herself, as she turned and looked back at the faint lights twinkling upon the Parade. It seemed as if she were saying good-bye to the town, where, in spite of the early struggles with poverty, there had been so much happiness, as in her young love dream she had felt that Richard Linnell cared for her.

Yes; it was like saying good-bye to it with all its weary troubles and bitter cares.

She walked on and on, right to the end, but the light did not shed its beams upon her now. It was no longer a star of hope. It sent its light far out to sea, but she was below it in the shade, and hope was forgotten as she leaned over the rail at the end, listening to the mysterious whisperings of the water in amongst the piles, and looking down into the transparent darkness all lit up with tiny lambent points which were ever going and coming. Now and then there would be a pale bluish-golden flash of light, and then quite a ribbon of dots and flashes, as some fish sped through the sea, but it only died out, leaving the soft transparency lit up with the faint dots and specks that were ever moving.

To her right, though, there was a cable, curving down into the sea, and rising far out, after nearly touching the sands, to ascend to the deck of a large smack aground on the bank. That rope was one mass of lambent light, a huge chain of pallid gold that glowed all round; and as Claire Denville gazed there was a rift in the clouds overhead, and from far above the rays from a cluster of stars were reflected like a patch of diamonds in the sea, and she turned shudderingly away to gaze down once more at the transparent darkness, where the moving specks seemed to have a peculiar fascination.

How the softly flowing and ebbing waves whispered below there amid the piles and down under the platform where her brother used to fish! How soothing and restful it all was to her aching head! The troubles that had been maddening her seemed to float away, and everything was calm and cool. As she stood thinking there a dreamy sensation came over her, such as comes to those who have awakened after the crisis of a fever. Hers had been a fever of the brain, a mental fever; and now all seemed so calm and still that she heaved a sigh, half sob, and the troubles died away in the past.

The transparent water into which she gazed, with its flashes of luminous splendour, seemed to grow more and more mysterious and strange. It was so like oblivion that it began to tempt her to trust herself to it and rest: for she was so weary! Trouble after trouble – the long series of cares – had been so terrible a strain that she felt that she could bear no more, and that the sea offered her forgetfulness and rest.

She did not know why she came there: it was not against her will – it was not with her will. Her mind seemed to be stunned, and it was as if her wearied body had drawn her there.

She leaned over the rail, with the cool, soft, refreshing air bathing her burning forehead, and watched one brilliant point of light – soft and lambent – that was near the surface, and then moved slowly down lower and lower into the dark depths that seemed beyond fathoming; and, as she watched it, the fancy came upon her that these points of light might be lives like hers, wearied out and now resting and gliding here and there in the soft transparent darkness at her feet.

Father – brother – sister – Richard Linnell – her past cares – all appeared distant and strange, and she had no more control over herself than has one in a dream. There was that weariness of spirit – of a spirit that had been whipped and spurred until jaded beyond endurance – that weariness that asked for rest – rest at whatever cost; and whispered that rest could only come in the great sleep – the last.

It did not seem like death, to step from the end of the pier into the dark water. There was nothing horrible therein. On the contrary, it wooed and beckoned her to its breast, offering utter oblivion when, in her more lucid moments, she felt she must go mad.

As if guided by instinct more than her own will, she turned at last from the rail and took a few steps in the darkness towards the side where the damp salt-soaked flight of steps led to the platform below – the rough landing-stage beneath where she had been standing.

Here, as she stood close to the edge with the black piles looming up around, she fancied they were the whisperers as the water heaved and plashed, and rippled and fell. There was no rail here between her and the rest that seemed to ask her to sink down into its arms, now that she was so weary, and unconsciously she was standing where her brother had stood and listened many months ago at the footsteps overhead, as he enjoyed his stolen pleasure in the middle of the night.

But there was no heavy step now – no voice to break the curious spell that was upon her, drawing her away from life, and bidding her sleep.

She was not afraid; she was not excited. Everything seemed to her dull and dreamy and restful, as she stood on the very verge of the open platform, with the water now only a few inches from her feet, leaning more and more over, till the slightest further movement would have overbalanced her, and she would have fallen in, to sink without a cry.

She hardly started as a firm hand gripped her arm, and she was drawn sharply back, to be held tightly by him who had followed her below, watching her every action and standing close behind her in the darkness with outstretched hands.

“Miss Denville – Claire – for heaven’s sake, what does this mean?”

She did not struggle, but turned round slowly, and looked in the dimly seen face.

“Richard Linnell!” she said, as if wondering at his presence.

“Yes, Richard Linnell,” he cried, panting with emotion. “Claire, my love, has it come to this?”

She did not shrink from him as he drew her closely to his side, and his arm clasped her waist, but gazed up at him in the same half-wondering way.

“Why are you here?” he said hoarsely. “Surely you were not thinking – oh, it is impossible.”

Still she did not answer, but in a slow, dull way extricated herself from his grasp, and pressed her hands over her face, covering her eyes for a few moments till she felt his touch as he laid his hand upon her arm.

“Claire,” he whispered, “you do not speak to me. Why do you not say something to drive away these horrible thoughts. You here – at this hour – alone? Is it my fate to be always misunderstanding you?”

She shuddered slightly, as if his words were reviving memories of other meetings, and now she spoke.

“I don’t know why I am here,” she said in a dazed, helpless way. “I have had so much trouble. I was tired!”

“Trouble!” he whispered. “Claire dearest, if you only knew how I loved you. Let me share the trouble – help you through everything.”

“Hush! Don’t speak to me like that, Richard Linnell,” she said slowly, as if she had to think deeply before she uttered a word. “I cannot talk to you now. My head!”

She paused and gazed at him helplessly, laying her hand upon her brow.

“You ought not to have been alone,” he said, earnestly. “But tell me – you were not thinking of that – ”

He pointed with a shudder to the sea that whispered and hissed below where they stood.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, still in the same dazed way. “I came, and it seemed to draw me towards it. I am so weary – so tired out.”

He caught her in his arms, and held her head down upon his shoulder, as he whispered in a voice deep with emotion:

“Weary, my poor girl, weary indeed. Now rest there, and, heaven helping me, half your trouble shall pass away. For I love you, Claire, love you with all my heart, and I too have suffered more than I can tell.”

She made no resistance to his embrace, but sighed deeply, as if he was giving her the support she needed in her time of weakness; but his heart sank within him as he felt how helpless and dazed she was. She yielded to him, but it was not the yielding of one who loved, neither was there a suggestion of caress in her words. He knew that she was half distraught with the suffering that had fallen to her lot; and holding her more tightly for a moment, he pressed his lips once reverently on her forehead, and then drew her arm through his.

“I will take you back,” he said.

She looked up at him, and a pang shot through his breast as he realised how weak she had become.

“Yes,” she said at last, “you will take me back.”

“And, Claire, are the clouds between us to pass away for ever now?” he whispered, as he held her hand.

“Clouds?” she said, as she seemed to comprehend him now. “No: they can never pass away. Mr Linnell, I am ill. I hardly know what I say.”

“Then trust me,” he said. “I will take you back.”

“Yes – if you will,” she said vacantly. “I have been so ill. I hardly know – why I am here.”

“But you understand me, Claire?” he said softly.

“Yes: I think I understand you.”

“Then remember this,” he said. “You have shrunk from me, and there has been a terrible estrangement through all your troubles; but, mark this, Claire Denville, I love you. Let me say those simple words again, and let their simplicity and truth bear them home to your heart. I love you, as I always have loved and always shall. You will turn to me, dearest, now.”

“It is impossible,” she said gravely, and she seemed moment by moment to be growing clearer.