“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.”