A DINNER OF CELEBRITIES.
Mr. Duval, punctual to his appointment, pulled up the spanking
chestnuts on to their haunches at Miss Montressor's door exactly at
four o'clock on Sunday afternoon. They were very spanking chestnuts
indeed, and the mail-phaeton glistened with varnish, and on every
place on the harness where it was possible massive pieces of
silver-plate had been put. All this was, of course, exaggerated and
_outré_, and quite foreign to Bryan Duval's good taste; but that good
taste had been swamped by a long connection with theatricals, and the
wondering stares of the public, which he would formerly have shrunk
from, he now took delight in, and disdained no method by which they
might be attracted.
The phaeton, the horses, and the harness; the huge bearskin rug, with
the French viscount's coronet, in red, elaborately displayed in one
corner of it, which enwrapped his legs; the very costume of Mr. Duval
himself, far more French than English, in its curly-brimmed hat, its
brilliant necktie, its small jean boots with glittering tips, and its
faultless _peau de Suède_ gloves--all these were merely so many
component parts of the general advertisement.
When people stopped in the street and nudged each other, muttering, as
he could plainly see by the motion of their lips, 'That's Bryan
Duval!' the actor-author inwardly winked, chuckling at the notoriety,
and recognising the success of the performance--inwardly only, for he
knew what a mistake it would have been to do away with the mysterious
interest with which he was regarded by dropping into the comedian or
buffoon, and therefore, when any public eye was on him, his face
preserved the look of suffering earnestness which it was accustomed to
wear on the stage.
When the garden-gate was opened, at the ring of the very elaborate
groom who had slid himself into the road before the horses stopped,
Miss Montressor appeared at the inner door of the villa; and very
pretty and picturesque she looked in her velvet skirt, and her upper
dress of fine gray cloth velvet, bound and buttoned, and her small
_chic_ bonnet to match.
'How good of you to be so punctual!' she said, with a bright smile.
'And how noble of you to be ready at the appointed time!' he cried,
from the phaeton. 'I will give you two extra sobs in your next tragic
part as a reward.'
'You are a horror,' she said, shaking her handsome parasol at him, 'to
speak of your own genius in that way--won't you come in?'
'No, thanks,' said Bryan, with a smile, which was so peculiar that
Miss Montressor flushed slightly, and said in reply:
'There is no one here.'
'O, I don't mean that,' said Duval; 'and I should not have minded in
the least if there had been; but we may as well take advantage of the
brightness of the day, and have a stroll in Richmond-park before
dinner.'
'O, that will be delightful!' said Miss Montressor. 'I am perfectly
ready to start at once. Justine, have I got everything?'
Justine, who was really Jane Clark, but who had adopted her present
appellation from the name of a soubrette in a melodrama, replied in
the affirmative, and Miss Montressor having taken her place by Bryan's
side, they drove away.
The wind was cool, but there was a bright sun, and the road was
enlivened with crowds of people making the most of this, the first day
of anything like fine weather, to escape from the dark streets to
which they had been so long confined. They were off to the
river-side public-houses of Putney and Mortlake, where they would talk
over the details of the race between Oxford and Cambridge, which had
recently been decided, or to the gardens of Kew, where they would pant
in the tropical houses, and examine with intense interest the
prospects of the budding trees and shrubs. They were pleasure-going
people for the most part, who were accustomed to rank the theatre as
one of their chief amusements, and who, from their hard benches in the
pit, made a point of seeing any play which had a successful run at
least once. So that Bryan Duval was well known by sight to most of
them, as well as to the omnibus drivers, who would lean back, and roar
in a hoarse voice behind their wash-leather gloves to the conductor:
'Know him? Dooval, the hactor!'
It is not to be supposed that Mr. Duval was unmindful of the sensation
he caused. When the omnibus men touched their hats to him, he raised
his own with a grave graceful bow; but even when he spoke to his
companion he still preserved the same impressive look upon his face.
'You see, Clara, my dear,' he said, with easy familiarity, though his
lips never relaxed one whit, 'you see how very effective this is.
People often ask me why I keep a mail-phaeton, and a brougham, and
these chestnuts, and all the rest of it; they wonder I don't go about
in a hansom cab; they say I should be much more independent, and it
would be so much cheaper; but independently of the fact that I prefer
my own handsome phaeton and comfortable brougham to any hansom cab, I
find that the expense of them is almost met by the purposes they serve
as an advertisement. Now this drive to-day is worth to me considerably
more than a half column over the clock in the _Times_. These people
would glance at that--they wouldn't read it; they never do read long
advertisements--and forget all about it the next minute; but when they
go home to-night, they will say to the children who are sitting up for
them, or to the old man for whom it was too long a walk, "Who do you
think we saw to-day? Why, Dooval, the performer--him that makes love
so well--and driving such a swell trap!" and then one or the other of
them will say they haven't seen me on the stage for some time, and
wonder what I am doing, or what new piece I have written; and then
they will look out the advertisement in the weekly paper, and you may
take your oath that the money for a couple of hundred pit seats is as
good as in my pocket at present.'
As they turned into Richmond-park they saw approaching them, by
another road, a well-appointed drag, with four splendid roan horses,
and driven by a tall gentlemanly-looking man, with a wonderfully
woe-be-gone countenance. On the box beside him sat an over-dressed
young person with blonde hair, and a face that was blue in the sun and
streaky in the shade. She was talking volubly to her companion, but
none of her sallies seemed to have the slightest effect in rousing
him.
'That's Laxington,' said Duval, as the two vehicles neared each other,
'and Patty Calvert by his side, of course. You know Laxington, don't
you? Ah, then don't be surprised if the bow which he gives you is a
very cool one; it is as much as his life is worth to take notice of
any other woman when the fair Patty is by him. He is too much of a
gentleman not to be courteous to everybody, but my idea is, that he
has a very bad time of it. And now just look at those fellows on the
top of the drag. Two or three of them can trace their descent back to
the Conqueror--though they would have no pull over me there; there is
no better blood than that of the Duvals in all France, my dear Clara,
though that, perhaps, does not interest you--and the rest are the sons
of fellows who have made their money by brewing, or mining, or
carrying goods by railway, or some other gentlemanly occupation of the
same kind, and yet there is not a ghost of an idea among the whole
lot! I assure you, beyond telling a broad story and retailing the
gossip of the backstairs, they have not a word to say for themselves.
Dining in their company is the hardest work I know--harder even than
it must be for you to listen to the odoriferous protestations of Mr.
Hedger's Romeo.'
'I can fancy it,' she said, 'from my little experience in that line.
But,' she added, looking saucily up at him, 'what do you do it for? I
am always seeing your name in the papers as dining with swells--if you
dislike it so, why do you do it?'
'As a matter of business, my dear,' said he, bending down, and
speaking to her quietly, 'because the Duvals lost all their property
in the first revolution, and because the beautiful estate of
Knochnabocklish, County Tipperary, which belonged to my mother's
family, was long since sold in the Encumbered Estates Court; because I
have my own way to fight in the world, and to do that, I must take
whatever weapon comes ready to my hand. Do you imagine that I like
going to these dinners? Do you think I don't know the terms on which I
am received--as a superior Jack Pudding, a table buffoon, a breaker of
that dead dull silence, which without me, or some one equivalent to
me, would reign unrelieved throughout the whole dreary banquet? By
Jove, when the thought comes over me sometimes, I am ready to start up
and rush out of the place, I am so ashamed of myself for having
descended to such depths;' and Mr. Duval sent his whip curling over
the beads of the chestnuts, causing them to plunge and dart off into a
mad gallop.
Miss Montressor neither felt nor showed the smallest fear. Had Lord
Laxington or any of his friends been her charioteer on the occasion,
she might possibly have speedily arranged an impromptu little scene;
but she knew that any such device would be thrown away upon Bryan
Duval, so she merely said:
'How a burst of passion suits you! You look remarkably well when you
are in a rage.'
'Thanks, generous stranger,' said Bryan, conscious that the deer were
his sole audience, and therefore permitting himself to lapse into a
grin. 'It is ages since I have let out in that way, and it will be
ages before I do so again. Thank Heaven, we shall have none of that
sort to-day. Foster left the invitations in my hands, and I think I
have got together rather a good party.'
As he spoke, they drew up to the door of the Star and Garter.
Patricians as well as plebeians had taken advantage of the brightness
of the day; there was a goodly show of drags and private carriages,
from which the horses had been removed, and the hall was filled with
persons who had either just arrived, or who were waiting for other
members of their party. The groom was moving slowly off with the
spanking chestnuts, and Bryan Duval, with Miss Montressor on his arm,
was just ascending the steps, when a gentleman, separating himself
from a knot of persons with whom he had been in conversation, advanced
towards him--a man about the middle height, and a little under middle
age, with a thick dark moustache and frank honest eyes.
'What, Foster, arrived already?' cried Bryan Duval. 'This is
delightful. You know Miss Montressor, I believe?'
'Miss Montressor's reputation was familiar to me before I left my own
country,' said Mr. Foster, raising his hat, 'and _I_ have had the
pleasure of becoming personally acquainted with her since my arrival
here.'
'Very prettily said, Foster,' said Bryan Duval, as they shook hands.
'We came down early, in order that we might have a stroll in the park
before dinner, and get an appetite for all your good things.'
'That's just what I proposed myself,' said Mr. Foster. 'I was naming
it to our friends when you drew up. Let's join them, and all go
together.'
They passed through the house into the garden, where some ten or a
dozen people were gathered together on the lawn. There, in a loose
brown overcoat, with heavy fur collar and cuffs, bell-crowned hat,
fashionably-cut trousers, and patent-leather boots, was Pierrefonds,
the celebrated dramatist, the man who had first introduced burlesques
to the English stage--not the music-hall and breakdown ribaldry of the
present day, but a combination of polished verse, of Attic wit, and
French allusion which, some years ago, had made the fortunes of the
Parthenon Theatre, and mainly helped to establish the great reputation
of Madame Vaurien, its directress. Pierrefonds's bodily strength is
not so great as in those days; his back is a little bowed, and his
walk is somewhat shaky; but he is as quick-brained in his work, and as
clever at tongue fence, as when the public thronged the pit to roar at
his puns, and the brightest spirits of the day gathered in the
green-room to revel in his repartee.
The heavily-built, heavy-browed man in the dark-red beard, dressed in
a suit of dark gray, with his hands in villanous mauve-coloured
gloves, clasped behind his back, is Bob Spate, whose sparkling little
comedies have in the last few years made the fortune of the little
Imperial Theatre, and who is, perhaps, at the present time the most
popular dramatist in England. He is a sad man, sparing of his speech
and more sparing of his smile, giving one the idea either of being
fond of solitude, or unaccustomed to and uncomfortable in the style of
company in which he found himself. People who did not know his story
wondered at such a successful man, wondered how one on whom the
world's favour shone so brightly could be so melancholy, almost so
morose.
They did not know that years ago, when the Imperial Theatre was called
'Higg's Hall of Amusement,' Bob Spate, then a young man, had written
several of the comedies which had since so entranced the world, and
had hawked them about here and there to London and provincial
managers, always receiving them back upon his hands with a half civil,
half contemptuous refusal. How was he, they argued, who was only a
fifth-rate actor at a pound a week, to be able to write a comedy, or
even, could he do so, what benefit could they reap by the production
of the work of an unknown man? So Bob Spate struggled and struggled in
poverty, in sickness, and ofttimes in hunger; struggled on, and saw
his wife die, and his children shrunken and wan and ailing, with the
bitter knowledge that what he had written was better than nine-tenths
of what he saw so highly paid for, but with the conviction that Fate
was against him.
When bright little Lotty Bennett made her first attempt at
establishing herself in life, and taking the dirty old Higg's Hall,
changed it into the bright Imperial, she thought that as she herself
was new in management, and she had a new company of actors, she might
try a new author; and remembering Bob Spate, who had been an old
friend of hers, and in whose energy and talent he had always faith,
produced one of his comedies on her opening night. The success was
immense, and from that time Bob Spate's fortune was made; wealth is
his now, and honour, and such position as he chooses to take. What are
they to him? Can they bring back to him the wife of his youth, whom he
saw die by his side, not from actual starvation, indeed, but from lack
of such necessaries as her delicate condition required? Can they
efface from his mind the privations suffered by his children and
himself? Can they bring back to him the youthful energy, the sanguine
hope, the bright happy view of life so long since fled? I trow not. It
is no wonder to me that Bob Spate is grave and reticent.
Anything but grave and reticent, however, is the gentleman standing
next to him. Mr. Orlando Bounce is the youngest of elderly gentlemen,
the brightest, cheeriest, emptiest rattletrap who for a half century
has been acting light lovers and dashing roués, and who, if rumour is
to be believed, has, during the same period, played the very same
parts in private life. Old-fashioned is a sad epithet, but it is
really applicable to Mr. Orlando Bounce; the peculiar roll of his
blue-black hair, the peculiar side-cock of his shiny hat, his swinging
gait, the elaborate motions of his arms--all these are essentially
old-fashioned; and when he bends in his back, and throws out his right
arm and right leg with studied grace, you are reminded of Charles
Surface, Captain Absolute, and all the riotous, swaggering young
heroes of the comedies of those days. Before the arrival of Miss
Montressor he has been paying great attention to the two ladies
between whom he was standing, but they neither of them seemed to be
much impressed by his attention. 'Get along, 'Lando, you are always
talking such stuff,' is what one of them says to him. These are Rose
and Blanche Wogsby, daughters of old Wogsby, manager of the northern
circuit, and prime favourites in London. There is an extraordinary
difference in their appearance: Blanche is very fair, with light-blue
eyes and delicate skin, and a pretty bud of a mouth; Rose is tall and
angular and swarthy, with dark hair, a strong jaw, and an underhanging
lip--Blanche is a fool, Rose a remarkably clever girl. 'Blanche Wogsby
is a fool,' frankly remarks Mr. Wuff, the great theatrical impresario,
'but she is always safe for a dozen stalls a night from the young
fellows who are spoony about her; but when it comes to the question of
the tear-and-tatters fakement, when you want the real grit and no
mistake about it, you must go to Rose. She will turn out a regular
Rachel, you may depend upon it!' Mr. Wuff pronounced this word like
the name of the lady who refused to be comforted, but meant to allude
to the great French actress.
All present, both ladies and gentlemen, were, or seemed to be, greatly
delighted at the new arrival. Bryan Duval was a general favourite. He
was so kind and good-natured, so ready to lend any of his colleagues a
helping hand, that they even forgave him his success. Miss Montressor
was popular too, considering her prettiness and the position she had
won for herself; more especially popular just at this moment, for the
news of her American engagement had got wind, and it was felt that she
would be out of all competitors' way for some time to come.
When the first greetings were over, Bryan Duval proposed that they
should stroll towards the park, and thither they all repaired; Mr.
Foster offering his arm to Miss Montressor, and remaining at some
little distance behind the others.
'Do you know,' said he, 'that I am really very glad to have made your
acquaintance--no, no,' he added quickly, as she looked up in his face
and smiled rather maliciously; 'when I say so, it is not the ordinary
compliment which you evidently imagine it to be. When you know me
better, you will find I am not given to paying compliments, and that I
invariably mean what I say.'
'I am glad to hear it in this case, at all events,' said Miss
Montressor, with a little bow.
'It is the case,' he said. 'I felt interested in you long before I saw
you. The fact is, Miss Montressor, I am a very busy man, far more
immersed in business, environed by it, and tied down to it, than any
of the gentlemen whom I have met here, and who are called your "City
men," and when I am at home in New York the one relaxation I allow
myself is the theatre.'
This man was a new experience to Miss Montressor, so far more earnest
and dignified than the usual run of her associates. She tried to fall
into his vein, and said quietly:
'I can understand its being a great resource to you.'
'It is a great relief,' he replied, 'in enabling me to throw off, for a
time at least, the dull cares and worries, and to fill my mind with
pictures and stories sufficiently absorbing to prevent its straying to
Wall-street and its ties. I have the pleasure of acquaintance with Mr.
Leonard Serbski; you have heard of him?'
'Certainly,' said Miss Montressor; 'he is the son of old James
Serbski, who was so great in the _Bandit_, and whose portrait hangs in
all the theatrical print-shops, is he not?'
'The same,' replied Mr. Foster; 'a very handsome and gentlemanly
fellow, and a very good actor. He has heard of you too, not merely
through the medium of the English theatrical newspapers, but from
people who have seen you, and has more than once mentioned your name
to me.'
Miss Montressor was delighted with the compliment, under which she
purred like a cat.
'I had no idea,' she said, raising her eyebrows, and throwing an
expression of childish incredulity, which she knew was very becoming,
into her face--'I had no idea that anybody in America had ever heard
of poor little me; I thought I was going out there entirely unknown,
and that I should have great difficulty in making my way.'
'You will find that you have happily deceived yourself,' said Mr.
Foster, with a smile. 'You will find that we Americans have a much
livelier and deeper interest in all matters appertaining to literature
and art than our more sober cousins on this side the Atlantic, that
all artists of any reputation are known to us, and that when they come
to our shores, they may be certain of a right hearty welcome.'
'I am very glad to hear you say so,' said Miss Montressor; 'and I only
wish--it is a selfish thing to say, is it not?--that chance had sent
you back to New York before our arrival, that I might be certain of
having at least one personal friend.'
'It would have delighted me to have been of service to you, and
perhaps I may even yet have the opportunity. When do you sail?'
'I think Mr. Duval mentioned the Cuba as the name of the vessel in
which our passage was engaged.'
'The Cuba!' repeated Mr. Foster. 'I am almost afraid that I shall be
unable to get back by her, although I have made such progress in the
business which brought me over here--business, you see, again, Miss
Montressor--that I think it will not be necessary for me to remain in
England so long as I at first anticipated.'
'If you were a married man, Mr. Foster, that would, I imagine, be very
pleasant news to some one who is, what you call, "on the other side."'
'_If I were a married man!_' he exclaimed, with a laugh. 'Why, do you
mean to say, Miss Montressor, that you have any doubt on the subject.'
'Well, you certainly have what I may call a family look about you,'
she said, casting a careless glance over him; 'but as I have never
heard you mention your wife, I concluded you were a bachelor.'
'I take it as a compliment,' he said, with another laugh, but this
time more nervously and more seriously than before, 'or rather as a
credit to myself, that even in the two short interviews which we have
had since I made your acquaintance, I have not said something about
my wife. It is the humour of most of my friends in New York to say
that--excepting business matters, of course, where I never permit any
domestic thoughts to intrude--that Helen's name is scarcely ever out
of my mouth.'
'And quite right too,' said Miss Montressor. 'I detest a man who is
married and ashamed of it, and who, when away from home, goes about,
as it were, sailing under false colours. And so Mrs. Foster is called
Helen? It is a very pretty name.'
'And she is a very pretty woman,' said Foster enthusiastically; 'and
not merely that, but the best and dearest little woman in the world.
Here,' he added, plunging his hands into his waistcoat-pocket, and
taking out from thence his watch, 'here is her portrait.' As he spoke,
he placed the watch in Miss Montressor's hand.
Miss Montressor took the watch, and looked at its back, which was
merely of engine-turned gold; then she pressed her fingers all round
in search of some hidden spring, but finding none, shook her head
blankly, and gave it back to her companion.
'I can see no portrait,' she said half pettishly.
'Of course not,' said he, with a laugh. 'You would not have me carry
such a treasure as that for every one to see whenever I wanted to know
the time. There,' he added, as the spring flew back and revealed the
miniature, 'now you see my darling.'
'What a sweet face!' cried Miss Montressor, clapping her hands; 'so
soft and pensive and loving! I don't wonder at your being fond of her,
Mr. Foster, or being anxious to get back to her.'
'She is all that you say,' cried Mr. Foster, 'and more, God bless her!'
'It is quite refreshing, in these times of separation and divorce
courts, and all that sort of thing,' said Miss Montressor, 'to find
such regular spooniness existing between a married couple. But if you
are so fond of each other, why on earth didn't you bring her with
you?'
'Didn't I tell you that I came over here on business, and that I never
allowed even Helen to interfere with me when I am so engaged? Besides,
she could not leave the child, which is indeed,' said Mr. Foster, 'the
sweetest and most engaging--'
'Yes,' interrupted Miss Montressor; 'you may spare your rhapsodies
about him, or her, or it. I don't go in for babies.'
'I am sure you would feel interested in her, if you only saw it; not
merely is she the prettiest, tiniest mite, but she would move your
sympathy for her bad health.'
'It has bad health, has it?' asked Miss Montressor carelessly.
'Very bad,' replied Foster. 'My wife's strength is scarcely equal to
the discharge of her maternal duties, and she has had to engage a
wet-nurse for the little one.'
'I hate wet-nurses,' said Miss Montressor shortly.
'They are not generally very trustworthy,' said Foster, 'but from a
letter I have here' (producing one from his breast-pocket, and opening
it), 'we seem to have found an exceptional treasure. Helen writes me in
the strongest terms of the respectability of Mrs. Jenkins.'
'Mrs. Jenkins?' replied Miss Montressor, pricking up her ears. 'Who is
she?'
'The wet-nurse of whom I have just spoken to you. You ought to have a
kindly feeling towards her; for Helen tells me that she is an
Englishwoman, and married to an Englishman for some time settled in
New York.'
An instantaneous gloom spread over Miss Montressor's face, and she
walked on by her companion's side in silence. Mrs. Jenkins? The name
was common enough among English people, and yet a horrible feeling of
fear crept over the young woman who chose to call herself Clara
Montressor--a feeling of fear lest this Mrs. Jenkins, now occupying
the situation of wet-nurse in Mr. Foster's family, should be none
other than her own sister Bess.
She had not heard from Bess for months, but the last letter was dated
from New York, and spoke of the shifty, hand-to-mouth existence which
she and her husband were leading. Could it be possible that they could
have fallen so low, that poverty could have come upon them so rapidly,
as to induce her to undertake such a menial position? Was her husband
dead? could he have deserted her? or what was the cause of her sudden
collapse?
The more she thought over this matter, the more angry and impatient
she grew; and Mr. Foster, noticing her preoccupation, thought it best
not to attempt to renew the conversation just then.
Did ever anything happen so unfortunately? At any other time it would
not have mattered in the least. Between Bess Jenkins, the wet-nurse in
New York, and Clara Montressor, the theatrical star in London, there
was a great gulf fixed; but when the theatrical star shifted its orbit
to the city where her humble relation was living, the latter would
naturally and undoubtedly proclaim to the world the family tie
existing between them, and endeavour to make the most of it to aid her
fallen fortune.
What should she do? what should she do? The saturnine face of Mr.
Dolby rose before her mind in a minute. How should she treat him in
regard to this matter? Certainly not tell him, for more reasons than
one. He would be the last man in the world from whom she would receive
any sympathy, and, besides, she does not choose to let him know the
fact of the relationship. Towards him, then, she would preserve
absolute silence; and a little further reflection decided her that her
best plan was to wait, become better acquainted with Mr. Foster, and
if she found him the good and honest man which, from her slight
acquaintance with him, she fancied him to be--for even with her
associates, and her experience of the world, she still believed in
goodness and honesty--perhaps tell him the truth, and get his help in
suppressing it. Yes, that was the course she would take; and having
determined on it, she put the subject aside, and looked up at her
companion, as though to say she were ready to renew the conversation.
'How pensive you have been!' said Foster earnestly. 'I did not like to
break in upon your reverie.'
'I am very much obliged to you for leaving me to myself for those few
moments,' she said, with a laugh; 'it doesn't sound complimentary, but
it is true. You see, I am about to take what may be a rather serious
step in my life, for if I succeed in America, my career is certain,
and if I fail it may be wrecked, not merely there, but here; ill news
travels apace, and it would soon be known that the London star had
made a fiasco.'
'Even then, former experiences prove that your compatriots would
retain their opinion of their favourite, and decline to accept our
verdict,' said Mr. Foster. 'However, you need not be under any
apprehensions of the sort; as I have told you before, you are sure to
succeed.'
'I have great faith in Bryan Duval,' said Miss Montressor, 'and full
reliance upon his generalship--he is popular too in New York, I
understand.'
'Very popular indeed,' said Mr. Foster; 'he has achieved what is
rather difficult there, a society reputation. This reputation he
apparently wants to extend, for he has asked me for an introduction to
my wife.'
'And you have given it to him?'
'Well, no,' said Mr. Foster, rather confusedly. 'There are--there are
some reasons why I could not do so conveniently--in writing, I mean.
Of course, I should be only too glad that both he and you should know
Mrs.--Mrs. Foster, but I prefer waiting to introduce you personally on
my arrival in New York; in case I cannot, there is yet a chance of my
leaving by the same steamer. I see the others are making for the
hotel, and I suppose, in my capacity of host, I ought to be the first
there.'
It was a very good dinner, and went off remarkably well. In addition
to the company already named, there were present Mr. Wuff, the
celebrated manager of the Great National Theatre, who was supposed to
be devoted to the legitimate drama, and where the performances at
present consisted in a short farce, followed by a long 'oriental
spectacular burlesque,' introducing horses, elephants, camels, and
dancing women; Viscount Koolese, who was supposed to be ruining
himself for Mademoiselle Petitpois, who brought with him his friend
Captain Clinker, the well-known gentleman rider, who said nothing, but
whenever he was amused hissed loudly through his teeth as though he
were cleaning a horse; a sound which seemed very unpleasant to the
theatrical people present. There was another manager too--Mr.
Hodgkinson of the Varieties--who kept up a running fire of argument
throughout the dinner with Bryan Duval; the actor-author, whether he
believed in it or not, maintaining that the drama should be the school
of poetry and refinement, and that all the theatrical managers should
be made with a view to that end--sentiments which Mr. Hodgkinson
violently pooh-poohed, declaring that his chief aim was to give
whatever amusement paid the best.
'Let 'em have it,' said Mr. Hodgkinson, who prided himself on being an
eminently practical man, striking his fist upon the table; 'dogs and
monkeys, Shakespeare, the "Perfect Cure," Tom Mugger in four farces a
night; or old Bounce here as Charles Surface, and all the rest of the
Sheridan fakement--and the public is always wanting one or other of
them, and my notion is, give them all a turn.'
Mr. Foster had placed Miss Montressor on his right hand, and though
there was, of course, no opportunity and no occasion for returning to
the subjects which they had touched upon in the park, he kept up a
constant conversation with her. When the party was about breaking up,
he proposed that she should return to town in his Victoria, where, as
the night was somewhat cold, she would be warmer and more comfortable
than in Bryan Duval's phaeton. Miss Montressor gladly accepted the
offer, and, of course, Mr. Duval made no difficulty. He would, he
thought, propose to drive Blanche Wogsby home, and take the
opportunity of finding out whether she was really such a fool as she
looked, or whether there would be any use in writing a part for her.
So the party broke up and the guests dispersed, and Bryan Duval, in
taking farewell of Miss Montressor, told her that if the letters which
he expected in the morning arrived, he should be able to let her know
for certain the day of sailing for New York.
'It has been a delightful day, Mr. Foster,' said the actress, as they
drove homewards, 'and I have enjoyed it immensely. Will you be able to
give us any such outings in America?'
'I hope many such,' said Mr. Foster; 'but unless you take more care of
yourself, I fear you will not be there to enjoy them. Seriously, your
English spring weather is proverbially treacherous, and the wind
tonight has a touch of east in it, which should induce you to wrap
your shawl more closely round you.'
'I want to wrap myself up,' said Miss Montressor, justly estimating
the truth of his words, 'for I am particularly susceptible to cold,
but I cannot for this bothering pin.'
'What is the matter with the pin?' said Mr. Foster, laughing.
'It is not half strong enough to hold the shawl together. I cannot
imagine how Justine sent me out with such a stupid thing.'
'Perhaps this will prove more effectual?' said Mr. Foster, taking the
breast-pin from his cravat and offering it to her.
'Thanks very much,' she cried, accepting it with great readiness.
'What a very pretty pin! I love these cameos, and this is such a
good-looking boy, with a straight nose and a queer cap on his head.'
'A Phrygian cap,' said Mr. Foster, laughing. 'It is a head of Ganymede.
I had it set as a pin, I thought it so handsome.'
'Do you mean to say you brought it with you from Phrygia, or wherever
it is?' asked the actress, who was vague in her geography.
'No, no,' said Mr. Foster, laughing still more; 'but it was a
sleeve-link when I first found it among my clothes when I opened my
portmanteau in London. I suppose it belonged to my wife, as she is
fond of such things, and that it was put up with my things by
accident.'
The shawl comfortably pinned round her, Miss Montressor settled
herself down to her corner, and neither she nor her companion spoke
much more, being occupied with their own reflections. But when Mr.
Foster took leave of her, he reminded her of Bryan Duval's last words,
and told her that if he were prevented from sailing in the Cuba, he
should certainly accompany the theatrical party down to Liverpool, and
take leave of them on board.
Miss Montressor had been in very good spirits all day, notwithstanding
the annoyance which, as we have seen, one portion of Mr. Foster's
communication had caused her. She was agreeably conscious that her
looks had been at their best. She was sufficiently refined, more by
nature than by education, to recognise a gentleman when she met one,
and to enjoy the ease and security conveyed by association with
gentlemen. Mr. Foster had struck her from the first as a gentleman;
not very brilliant indeed, but kind, courteous, and considerate--the
sort of man who did not make women uncomfortable by either his looks
or his language--and Miss Montressor appreciated this. She did not
belong in the least to the reckless class among her order, and she had
an almost morbid longing to be treated like a lady, as she expressed
it, without the stately flattery on the one hand, or the freedom and
easiness of the other, which ordinarily characterises the manner of
the men with whom she habitually associated, and which were just as
equally distasteful to her. Mr. Foster had gratified this longing; he
had treated her with all the courtesy which he could have extended to
the highest social position, and with a confidential fearlessness that
had gone to the heart of the woman, who had always been poor in
friends. When the pleasant day came to an end, Miss Montressor entered
her pretty little house with a light step and a light heart,
notwithstanding a vexation about Bess. By this time she had come to
think of some means of getting over what would turn up. The day had
seemed very short, and yet almost every minute of it had been full of
pleasure. She was a little tired--those long pleasant days do tire
one, after all--but she was not so cross as usual when, the
feverishness of amusement having passed away, she returned to the home
enlivened by no kindred presence. She answered her maid cheerfully, as
the girl tripped down to the garden-gate at the summons of the bell,
and let her mistress in.
'Yes, thank you, Justine, I am all right--rather tired; but we have
had a delightful day.'
Justine removed the dainty bonnet and the filmy lace mantle, folded
the absurd parasol, which looked like a summer cabbage on a stalk, so
flounced and furbelowed was the little silken dummy utterly useless
as a sunshade, and while her mistress undid the buttons of her
silver-gray silk gown, fetched a white morning robe, in which she
clothed her tall full form. During these preliminary operations of her
night toilette Miss Montressor talked away gaily--not about the day's
proceedings, but about numerous trifles connected with her approaching
journey and her sojourn in America. But when her hair had been brushed
and the maid's duties were nearly completed, a trifling circumstance
occurred which disturbed Miss Montressor's serenity. Her draped
dressing-table stood in front of the large window of her bedroom, a
French window opening to the floor, and looking out upon the trim
little grassy terrace which ran along the back of the house, and from
whence the garden, very pretty and effective for its extent, was
reached by two steps. On this dressing-table stood her tolerably
well-stored jewel-box. Miss Montressor was replacing some ornaments
she had worn that day in the satin-lined tray of the casket when she
perceived that the window was open, and asked Justine angrily whether
she had been aware of this.
'No,' Justine replied; 'she hadn't noticed it.'
'Then you ought to have noticed it,' said Miss Montressor; 'such
carelessness is abominable. Any one who pleased might have taken my
jewel-box off the table without the least difficulty. The idea of
leaving the window open on a Sunday, with no one in the house but
yourself and such a lot of tramps about!'
Justine stood convicted, and could only promise that she would be more
careful for the future; she was rather saucy sometimes, and ready with
an answer to a rebuke, but on this occasion she said very little.
There had been no one about the place, and though she had been
the only person in the house--the cook and the page having had a
holiday--she had hardly left Miss Montressor's room, had indeed been
reading at the open window the greater part of the day. But Justine,
after her mistress was in bed, while folding up the shawl she had worn
that day in so preoccupied a mood that she did not observe the pin
with the carved gem for its head which was stuck into the soft woollen
fabric, remembered, with a great sense of relief for the escaped
danger, how there had come to the house late in the afternoon a man in
the dress of a sailor who spoke like an American. This man had been
rather hard to get rid of. He had pertinaciously pressed his claim for
a little assistance, and had been hard to persuade that the lady was
not really at home. 'Just fancy,' thought Justine, 'if he had slunk
round to the back of the house and seen the window open, and made off
with the jewel-case; and I only wonder he didn't get hold of that or
of something, for he was as objectionable a tramp as ever I saw.'
But that she had ever seen this objectionable tramp before, or heard
his voice in any other capacity, Justine was totally unconscious; of
which testimony to the efficacy of the change of costume the man in
the sailor's dress was complacently aware. If Justine's quick eyes
were deceived, it would deceive those of other people. A preliminary
risk had been successfully run, and the omen was good.