LITMIR.BIZ

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door, and must lower himself to the position of one of our servants, is no companion for my children. I forbid all further communication with him.”

      “Oh, papa!” cried Claire, with the tears in her eyes.

      “Silence! Morton, my son, I have hopes that by means of my interest a certain person will give you a commission in the Light Dragoons, and – For what we have received may the Lord make us truly thankful.”

      “Amen,” said Morton. “Claire, I want some more bread and butter.”

      “Claire,” said the Master of the Ceremonies, rising from the table as a faint tinkle was heard, “there is the Countess’s bell.”

      He drew the girl aside and laid a thin white finger upon her shoulder.

      “You must give her a broader hint this morning, Claire. Six months, and she has paid nothing whatever. I cannot, I really cannot go on finding her ladyship in apartments and board like this. It is so unreasonable. A woman, too, with her wealth. Pray, speak to her again, but don’t offend her. You must be careful. Delicately, my child – delicately. A leader of fashion even now. A woman of exquisite refinement. Of the highest aristocracy. Speak delicately. It would never do to cause her annoyance about such a sordid thing as money – a few unsettled debts of honour. Ah, her bell again. Don’t keep her waiting.”

      “If you please, ma’am, her ladyship has rung twice,” said Isaac, entering the room; “and Eliza says shall she go?”

      “No, Isaac, your mistress will visit her ladyship,” said the MC with dignity. “You can clear away, Isaac – you can clear away.”

      Stuart Denville, Esquire, walked to the window and took a pinch of snuff. As soon as his back was turned Isaac grinned and winked at Morton, making believe to capture and carry off the bread and butter; while the lad hastily wrote on a piece of paper:

      “Pour me out a cup of tea in the pantry, Ike, and I’ll come down.”

      Five minutes later the room was cleared, and the MC turned from the window to catch angrily from the table some half-dozen letters which the footman had placed ready for him to see.

      “Bills, bills, bills,” he said, in a low, angry voice, thrusting them unread into the drawer of a cabinet; “what am I to do? How am I to pay?”

      He sat down gracefully, as if it were part of his daily life, and his brow wrinkled, and an old look came into his face as he thought of the six months’ arrears of the lady who occupied his first floor, and his hands began to tremble strangely as he seemed to see open before him an old-fashioned casket, in which lay, glittering upon faded velvet, necklet, tiara, brooch, earrings and bracelets – large diamonds of price; a few of which, if sold, would be sufficient to pay his debts, and enable him to keep up appearances, and struggle on, till Claire was well married, and his son well placed.

      Money – money – always struggling on for money in this life of beggarly gentility; while only on the next floor that old woman on the very brink of the grave had trinkets, any one of which —

      He made a hasty gesture, as if he were thrusting back some temptation, and took up a newspaper, but let it fall upon his knees as his eyes lit upon a list of bankrupts.

      Was it come to that? He was heavily in debt to many of the tradespeople. The epidemic in the place last year had kept so many people away, and his fees had been less than ever. Things still looked bad. Then there was the rent, and Barclay had said he would not wait, and there were the bills that Barclay held – his acceptances for money borrowed at a heavy rate to keep up appearances when his daughter May – his idol – the pretty little sunbeam of his house – became Mrs Frank Burnett.

      “Barclay is hard, very hard,” said the Master of the Ceremonies to himself. “Barclay said – ”

      He again made that gesture, a gracefully made gesture of repelling something with his thin, white hands, but the thought came back.

      “Barclay said that half the ladies of fashion when short of money, through play, took their diamonds to their jeweller, sold some of the best, and had them replaced with paste. It took a connoisseur to tell the difference by candlelight.”

      Stuart Denville, poverty-stricken gentleman, the poorest of men, suffering as he did the misery of one struggling to keep up appearances, rose to his feet with a red spot in each of his cheeks, and a curious look in his eyes.

      “No, no,” he ejaculated excitedly as he walked up and down, “a gentleman, sir – a gentleman, if poor. Better one’s razors or a pistol. They would say it was all that I could do. Not the first gentleman who has gone to his grave like that.”

      He shuddered and stood gazing out of the window at the sea, which glittered in the sunshine like – yes, like diamonds.

      Barclay said he had often changed diamonds for paste, and no one but a judge could tell what had been done. Half a dozen of the stones from a bracelet replaced with paste, and he would be able to hold up his head for a year, and by that time how changed everything might be.

      Curse the diamonds! Was he mad? Why did the sea dance and sparkle, and keep on flashing like brilliants? Was it the work of some devil to tempt him with such thoughts? Or was he going mad?

      He took pinch after pinch of snuff, and walked up and down with studied dancing-master strides as if he were being observed, instead of alone in that shabby room, and as he walked he could hear the dull buzz of voices and a light tread overhead.

      He walked to the window again with a shudder, and the sea still seemed to be all diamonds.

      He could not bear it, but turned to his seat, into which he sank heavily, and covered his face with his hands.

      Diamonds again – glistening diamonds, half a dozen of which, taken – why not borrowed for a time from the old woman who owed him so much, and would not pay? Just borrowed for the time, and paste substituted till fate smiled upon him, and his plans were carried out. How easy it would be. And she, old, helpless, would never know the difference – and it was to benefit his children.

      “I cannot bear it,” he moaned; and then, “Barclay would do it for me. He is secret as the tomb. He never speaks. If he did, what reputations he could blast.”

      So easy; the old woman took her opiate every night, and slept till morning. She would not miss the cross – yes, that would be the one – no, a bracelet better. She never wore that broad bracelet, Claire said, now she had realised that her arms were nothing but bone.

      “Am I mad?” cried the old man, starting up again. “Yes, what is it?”

      “Messenger from Mr Barclay, sir, to say he will call to-morrow at twelve, and he hopes you will be in.”

      “Yes, yes, Isaac; say yes, I will be in,” said the wretched man, sinking back in his chair with the perspiration starting out all over his brow. And then, as he was left alone, “How am I to meet him? What am I to say?” he whispered. “Oh, it is too horrible to bear!”

      Once more he started to his feet and walked to the window and looked out upon the sea.

      Diamonds – glittering diamonds as far as eye could reach, and the Master of the Ceremonies, realising more and more the meaning of the word temptation, staggered away from the window with a groan.

      Volume One – Chapter Three.

      The Flickering Flame

      “Draw the curtains, my dear, and then go into the next room, and throw open the French window quite wide.”

      It was a mumbling noise that seemed to come out of a cap-border lying on a pillow, for there was no face visible; but a long thin elevation of the bedclothes, showing that some one was lying there, could be seen in the dim light.

      Claire drew the curtains, opened a pair of folding-doors, and crossed the front room to open the French window and admit the sweet fresh air.

      She stepped out into the balcony supported by wooden posts, up which a creeper was trained, and stood by a few shrubs in pots gazing out at the brilliant sea; but only for a few moments, before turning, recrossing the skimpily

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