AN UNPLEASANT RENCONTRE.
Left alone with himself, Sir Watkin revolved many things. He was not
sorry after all, he tried to persuade himself, that he was not in
Parliament. He was no eager politician, and he had none of that fatal
fluency when on his legs, so common in our day among the ambitious clerks
and traders who join Parliamentary societies, and figure in them with the
hope at some time or other of calling themselves M.P.’s. It was time, he
thought, that he should again try his luck in the matrimonial market,
and, indeed, he had almost made up his mind to secure a prize which had
been temptingly displayed.
He had been staying at Brighton, at a grand hotel, and there he had made
the acquaintance of a wealthy merchant, an old widower, with an only
daughter, for whose hand and heart he had already commenced angling. The
father was chatty and cheerful in the smoking-room, of one of the
Brighton clubs, and the girl, if she had not the birth of a lady, had all
the accomplishments of one. She was not romantic, few girls nowadays
are. She was not a philosopher in petticoats, as so many of them try to
be. She read novels, could quote Tennyson, had the usual
accomplishments, never failed to put in an appearance at a fashionable
church on a Sunday, and had once or twice figured at a stall at a charity
bazaar. Her figure looked well on horseback, and did not disgrace a
Belgravian ball-room. It was to her credit that she had not attempted
authorship. She was not a bad hand at a charade, and was a proficient in
lawn tennis, where one weak curate after another had succumbed to her
charms. Poor fellows, they singed their wings in vain at that candle.
Neither father nor daughter was ecclesiastically inclined. In addition,
she had had the measles and been vaccinated and confirmed, and was
ambitious of worldly success.
‘Just a woman to make a lady of,’ said the Baronet to himself, as he
watched her receding figure one morning as she was on her way to Brill’s
Baths for a swimming lesson. ‘They tell me the old man has no end of
tin, and this is his only child.’
He met the Baronet half way. When Sir William Holles, the son of that
Sir William Holles, Lord Mayor of London, and Alderman of Candlewick
Ward, and knighted by Henry VIII., was recommended by his friends to
marry his daughter to the Earl of Cumberland, he replied:
‘Sake of God’ (his usual mode of expression), ‘I do not like to stand
with my cap in hand to my son-in-law. I will see her married to an
honest gentleman with whom I may have friendship and conversation.’
Sir Watkin relieved the London merchant of any apprehension on that
score, when, one day, he managed to dine in his company. It was
wonderful how well they got on together. Sir Watkin talked of stocks and
shares, of foreign loans and the rate of exchange, of hostile tariffs, of
the fall of this house and the rise of another, of aldermen and lord
mayors, as if he had been a City man himself. It is true this talk is
rather dull, but Sir Watkin was not brilliant by any means.
Back in town the Baronet felt rather dull. Such men often are dull.
Time hangs heavily on the hands of such.
As Sir Watkin looked into the advertising columns of the evening paper he
caught the name of Miss Howard. She was acting that very night. He
would go and see her. Just as he resolved to carry out this idea, his
old club friend reappeared upon the scene. Sir Watkin stated his
intention. There could be no harm in his doing that. Perhaps she might
soften; perhaps her anger was only assumed. Perhaps it was not the woman
but the actress that seemed so indignant at their unexpected meeting.
‘How foolish,’ thought his friend, ‘Sir Watkin is! He had better take me
with him, or he’ll be sure to get into a scrape. That’s like him. Just
as he wants to pull off that Brighton affair he’s off after another
woman.’
Sir Watkin meanwhile is making his way to the theatre. I don’t say that
he is to be condemned because he did that. As a rule a man of a gay turn
or of idle disposition is better inside a theatre than out. At any rate,
there he is out of harm’s way, and not losing money, as he might be if he
remained betting and gambling at his club. The life there produced is a
good deal of it artificial and unnatural, but the spectacle is generally
pleasant, and if the actors are often ridiculous, some of them are good,
and a few of them clever.
It was late when Sir Watkin entered the theatre. For awhile he waited in
vain; at length, on the stage, sure enough, was the woman he wanted to
see. Did she recognise him in the stalls? He hoped she did. He was got
up regardless of expense, and occupied a good place. He had dined well,
and had somewhat the appearance of a son of Belial, flushed with
insolence and wine. He felt that the actress was in his power. He knew
the manager, and was certain that he could gain access, when he sought
it, behind the scenes. Strange to say, the actress regarded him not.
When you are acting, it is not always easy—especially if you are in
earnest—to single out particular individuals from the motley mass in
front of the footlights. The good actor throws himself into his part,
and has something else to do than to gaze on occupants of the benches.
His eyes and his heart are elsewhere. At the time, when Sir Watkin
arrived, Miss Howard was a simple village girl, engaged in warding off
the libertine advances of a wicked baron. It seemed that he was about to
succeed in his foul designs. According to all human appearances he had
her completely in his power. Happily her cry for help was heard, and,
after a due amount of agony on her part, and of breathless suspense on
the part of the audience, she was saved, and the curtain fell amidst
thunders of applause. The piece was not much as regards novelty, but it
was of a class that has just that touch of nature which makes the whole
world kin. Miss Howard well acted the _rôle_ of the virtuous village
maiden, and when the true lover, who had come back with a fortune which
he had made in the Australian diggings, turned up, everyone felt that her
faith and virtue were to meet an appropriate reward. Sir Watkin, cynic
as he was, could not but admire. At first he ventured to hesitate,
dislike, to damn with faint praise, as in his somewhat superior style he
attempted one or two remarks to those around; but the feeling was too
strong, and he found himself applauding in spite of his stern resolve to
do nothing of the kind. Yes, the girl had become a fine woman and a
clever actress. She surely would not cut him if he made his way behind
the scenes. In vain, however, he would have tried had not the manager
seen him.
‘How d’ye do, Sir Watkin? glad to see you. You have not been much with
us of late.’
‘No,’ replied the Baronet; ‘I’ve been busy elsewhere. You’ve got a good
house to-night. A good deal of paper, I suppose?’
‘Not a bit of it. The public pay.’
‘I am glad to hear that. How do you account for it?’
‘Sir Watkin, I am surprised you ask such a question when you see what a
star we’ve got.’
‘Oh, Miss Howard. Not bad. I should like to speak to her.’
‘By all means; come along.’
And they made their way to the back, cold and draughty, and very
disenchanting, as the workmen were shifting the scenes.
‘Take care, Sir Watkin. Mind that trapdoor. Look out, Sir Watkin!’ and
suchlike exclamations were uttered by the manager as one danger after
another threatened. The scene-shifters, very dirty, were numerous.
There a ballet-girl was talking to an admirer, as she was waiting her
turn. There another was by herself practising the step which was, in a
few minutes, to crown her with well-deserved applause. In the midst of
them presently Miss Howard appeared. The manager hastened to introduce
his old friend, who, with his hat off, was preparing one of the polite
speeches for which men of the world are famous, and by means of which,
occasionally, they ensnare a woman.
The lady walked on.
The manager was shocked.
It was now the Baronet’s turn.
‘Permit an old friend to offer Miss Howard his congratulations on her
great success this evening.’
The lady thus addressed coldly bowed, but uttered never a word.
The situation was embarrassing. Fain would the Baronet have detained the
actress.
‘Rose,’ he said passionately, ‘one word!’
But before he could utter another he found himself face to face with
Wentworth, who, as usual, had come to see the actress home.
‘You here?’ said he to the Baronet.
‘Yes, and why not?’ said the latter angrily.
‘And you dare speak to that lady?’
‘Yes, why not? Do you think I am to be balked by a fellow like you?’
‘Say that again,’ said Wentworth, ‘and I’ll break every bone in your
body.’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ exclaimed the manager, ‘pray be quiet! Sir
Watkin, come along with me.’
The manager was in a dilemma. He would not for the world offend the
Baronet, who had often aided him with money, and at the same time he was
afraid of the press, of which Wentworth was a representative. As he said
afterwards, he felt as if he were between the devil and the deep sea.
His aim was to offend no one who could be of any use.
‘Come along with you—yes, I will, but I must have it out with this fellow
first,’ said the Baronet, making a rush at Wentworth, who seemed quite
prepared for the encounter.
Fortunately, just at that time there was a rush of ballet-girls between
the angry combatants. They covered the Baronet in a cloud of muslin,
who, though not seen, could be heard expressing indignation in no
measured terms. The Baronet was powerless as, like a protecting wall,
they encircled him, all smiles and sunshine—a contrast to his scowling
face.
‘Pardon me, ladies,’ said he, ‘you’re rather in my way. I have been
insulted on this stage, and I’ll have my revenge.’
What more the Baronet would have said is lost to history. The stage is
full of pit-fells. One gave way as he was speaking, and suddenly he sank
out of sight. The ballet-girls shrieked, and then burst into a fit of
laughter as they saw no harm was done. It is needless to say the Baronet
was soon extricated from his unpleasant position, and made a rapid
retreat. It does not do to be ridiculous, especially when you are in a
towering rage, as we all know there is but a step between the sublime and
the ridiculous.
‘I wish,’ he said to himself, as he drove home, ‘I had stopped at the
club. I was a fool to go behind the scenes. I would like to be revenged
on that Wentworth, but how? That’s the difficulty. The age of duelling
is past, murder has ceased to be one of the fine arts, and I must grin
and bear it.’
So far the Baronet was right. In the eye of the law, and at the bar of
public opinion, the man who resorts to force is hopelessly in the wrong.
We moderns, like the gods of Epicurus, approve
‘The depth, but not the tumult of the soul.’
Poor Rose was not a little upset. Her face was marble, but her heart was
sad. Was this man to track her steps?
‘Rose, my beautiful,’ said her companion, when they were fairly out of
the theatre, ‘we have loved each other long, and the sooner we get
married the better. It is not safe for you to be alone.’
It was thus he spoke, nor did he speak in vain.
We hear much of woman’s rights in these days. I am old-fashioned enough
to believe that her first right is a husband to look after her. It is
not well for man or woman to be alone.
* * * * *
END OF VOL. II.
* * * * *
* * * * *
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.