KENELM took his way to the theatre, and inquired of the door-keeper for
Mr. Herbert Compton. That functionary replied, “Mr. Compton does not act
to-night, and is not in the house.”
“Where does he lodge?”
The door-keeper pointed to a grocer’s shop on the other side of the way,
and said tersely, “There, private door; knock and ring.”
Kenelm did as he was directed. A slatternly maid-servant opened the
door, and, in answer to his interrogatory, said that Mr. Compton was at
home, but at supper.
“I am sorry to disturb him,” said Kenelm, raising his voice, for he
heard a clatter of knives and plates within a room hard by at his left,
“but my business requires to see him forthwith;” and, pushing the maid
aside, he entered at once the adjoining banquet-hall.
Before a savoury stew smelling strongly of onions sat a man very much at
his ease, without coat or neckcloth,--a decidedly handsome man, his hair
cut short and his face closely shaven, as befits an actor who has wigs
and beards of all hues and forms at his command. The man was not alone;
opposite to him sat a lady, who might be a few years younger, of a
somewhat faded complexion, but still pretty, with good stage features
and a profusion of blond ringlets.
“Mr. Compton, I presume,” said Kenelm, with a solemn bow.
“My name is Compton: any message from the theatre? or what do you want
with me?”
“I--nothing!” replied Kenelm; and then deepening his naturally mournful
voice into tones ominous and tragic, continued, “By whom you are wanted
let this explain;” therewith he placed in Mr. Compton’s hand the letter
with which he was charged, and stretching his arms and interlacing his
fingers in the _pose_ of Talma as Julius Caesar, added, “‘Qu’en dis-tu,
Brute?’”
Whether it was from the sombre aspect and awe-inspiring delivery of
the messenger, or the sight of the handwriting on the address of the
missive, Mr. Compton’s countenance suddenly fell, and his hand rested
irresolute, as if not daring to open the letter.
“Never mind me, dear,” said the lady with blond ringlets, in a tone of
stinging affability: “read your _billet-doux_; don’t keep the young man
waiting, love!”
“Nonsense, Matilda, nonsense! _billet-doux_ indeed! more likely a bill
from Duke the tailor. Excuse me for a moment, my dear. Follow me, sir,”
and rising, still with shirtsleeves uncovered, he quitted the room,
closing the door after him, motioned Kenelm into a small parlour on the
opposite side of the passage, and by the light of a suspended gas-lamp
ran his eye hastily over the letter, which, though it seemed very short,
drew from him sundry exclamations. “Good heavens, how very absurd!
what’s to be done?” Then, thrusting the letter into his trousers-pocket,
he fixed upon Kenelm a very brilliant pair of dark eyes, which soon
dropped before the steadfast look of that saturnine adventurer.
“Are you in the confidence of the writer of this letter?” asked Mr.
Compton, rather confusedly.
“I am not the confidant of the writer,” answered Kenelm, “but for the
time being I am the protector!”
“Protector!”
“Protector.”
Mr. Compton again eyed the messenger, and this time fully realizing the
gladiatorial development of that dark stranger’s physical form, he grew
many shades paler, and involuntarily retreated towards the bell-pull.
After a short pause, he said, “I am requested to call on the writer. If
I do so, may I understand that the interview will be strictly private?”
“So far as I am concerned, yes: on the condition that no attempt be made
to withdraw the writer from the house.”
“Certainly not, certainly not; quite the contrary,” exclaimed Mr.
Compton, with genuine animation. “Say I will call in half an hour.”
“I will give your message,” said Kenelm, with a polite inclination of
his head; “and pray pardon me if I remind you that I styled myself the
protector of your correspondent, and if the slightest advantage be
taken of that correspondent’s youth and inexperience or the smallest
encouragement be given to plans of abduction from home and friends, the
stage will lose an ornament and Herbert Compton vanish from the scene.”
With these words Kenelm left the player standing aghast. Gaining the
street-door, a lad with a band-box ran against him and was nearly upset.
“Stupid,” cried the lad, “can’t you see where you are going? Give this
to Mrs. Compton.”
“I should deserve the title you give if I did for nothing the business
for which you are paid,” replied Kenelm, sententiously, and striding on.