“I HAVE fulfilled my mission,” said Kenelm, on rejoining his travelling
companion. “Mr. Compton said he would be here in half an hour.”
“You saw him?”
“Of course: I promised to give your letter into his own hands.”
“Was he alone?”
“No; at supper with his wife.”
“His wife! what do you mean, sir?--wife! he has no wife.”
“Appearances are deceitful. At least he was with a lady who called him
‘dear’ and ‘love’ in as spiteful a tone of voice as if she had been his
wife; and as I was coming out of his street-door a lad who ran against
me asked me to give a band-box to Mrs. Compton.”
The boy turned as white as death, staggered back a few steps, and
dropped into a chair.
A suspicion which during his absence had suggested itself to Kenelm’s
inquiring mind now took strong confirmation. He approached softly, drew
a chair close to the companion whom fate had forced upon him, and said
in a gentle whisper,--
“This is no boy’s agitation. If you have been deceived or misled, and
I can in any way advise or aid you, count on me as women under the
circumstances count on men and gentlemen.”
The boy started to his feet, and paced the room with disordered steps,
and a countenance working with passions which he attempted vainly to
suppress. Suddenly arresting his steps, he seized Kenelm’s hand, pressed
it convulsively, and said, in a voice struggling against a sob,--
“I thank you,--I bless you. Leave me now: I would be alone. Alone, too,
I must face this man. There may be some mistake yet; go.”
“You will promise not to leave the house till I return?”
“Yes, I promise that.”
“And if it be as I fear, you will then let me counsel with and advise
you?”
“Heaven help me, if so! Whom else should I trust to? Go, go!”
Kenelm once more found himself in the streets, beneath the mingled light
of gas-lamps and the midsummer moon. He walked on mechanically till he
reached the extremity of the town. There he halted, and seating himself
on a milestone, indulged in these meditations:--
“Kenelm, my friend, you are in a still worse scrape than I thought you
were an hour ago. You have evidently now got a woman on your hands. What
on earth are you to do with her? A runaway woman, who, meaning to run
off with somebody else--such are the crosses and contradictions in human
destiny--has run off with you instead. What mortal can hope to be safe?
The last thing I thought could befall me when I got up this morning was
that I should have any trouble about the other sex before the day was
over. If I were of an amatory temperament, the Fates might have some
justification for leading me into this snare, but, as it is, those
meddling old maids have none. Kenelm, my friend, do you think you ever
can be in love? and, if you were in love, do you think you could be a
greater fool than you are now?”
Kenelm had not decided this knotty question in the conference held with
himself, when a light and soft strain of music came upon his ear. It was
but from a stringed instrument, and might have sounded thin and tinkling
but for the stillness of the night, and that peculiar addition of
fulness which music acquires when it is borne along a tranquil air.
Presently a voice in song was heard from the distance accompanying
the instrument. It was a man’s voice, a mellow and a rich voice, but
Kenelm’s ear could not catch the words. Mechanically he moved on towards
the quarter from which the sounds came, for Kenelm Chillingly had music
in his soul, though he was not quite aware of it himself. He saw before
him a patch of greensward, on which grew a solitary elm with a seat
for wayfarers beneath it. From this sward the ground receded in a wide
semicircle bordered partly by shops, partly by the tea-gardens of a
pretty cottage-like tavern. Round the tables scattered throughout the
gardens were grouped quiet customers, evidently belonging to the class
of small tradespeople or superior artisans. They had an appearance of
decorous respectability, and were listening intently to the music. So
were many persons at the shop-doors and at the windows of upper rooms.
On the sward, a little in advance of the tree, but beneath its shadow,
stood the musician, and in that musician Kenelm recognized the wanderer
from whose talk he had conceived the idea of the pedestrian excursion
which had already brought him into a very awkward position. The
instrument on which the singer accompanied himself was a guitar, and his
song was evidently a love-song, though, as it was now drawing near to
its close, Kenelm could but imperfectly guess at its general meaning.
He heard enough to perceive that its words were at least free from the
vulgarity which generally characterizes street ballads, and were yet
simple enough to please a very homely audience.
When the singer ended there was no applause; but there was evident
sensation among the audience,--a feeling as if something that had given
a common enjoyment had ceased. Presently the white Pomeranian dog, who
had hitherto kept himself out of sight under the seat of the elm-tree,
advanced, with a small metal tray between his teeth, and, after looking
round him deliberately, as if to select whom of the audience should
be honoured with the commencement of a general subscription, gravely
approached Kenelm, stood on his hind legs, stared at him, and presented
the tray.
Kenelm dropped a shilling into that depository, and the dog, looking
gratified, took his way towards the tea-gardens. Lifting his hat, for he
was, in his way, a very polite man, Kenelm approached the singer, and,
trusting to the alteration in his dress for not being recognized by a
stranger who had only once before encountered him he said,--
“Judging by the little I heard, you sing very well, sir. May I ask who
composed the words?”
“They are mine,” replied the singer.
“And the air?”
“Mine too.”
“Accept my compliments. I hope you find these manifestations of genius
lucrative?”
The singer, who had not hitherto vouchsafed more than a careless glance
at the rustic garb of the questioner, now fixed his eyes full upon
Kenelm, and said, with a smile, “Your voice betrays you, sir. We have
met before.”
“True; but I did not then notice your guitar, nor, though acquainted
with your poetical gifts, suppose that you selected this primitive
method of making them publicly known.”
“Nor did I anticipate the pleasure of meeting you again in the character
of Hobnail. Hist! let us keep each other’s secret. I am known hereabouts
by no other designation than that of the ‘Wandering Minstrel.’”
“It is in the capacity of minstrel that I address you. If it be not an
impertinent question, do you know any songs which take the other side of
the case?”
“What case? I don’t understand you, sir.”
“The song I heard seemed in praise of that sham called love. Don’t you
think you could say something more new and more true, treating that
aberration from reason with the contempt it deserves?”
“Not if I am to get my travelling expenses paid.”
“What! the folly is so popular?”
“Does not your own heart tell you so?”
“Not a bit of it,--rather the contrary. Your audience at present
seem folks who live by work, and can have little time for such idle
phantasies; for, as it is well observed by Ovid, a poet who wrote much
on that subject, and professed the most intimate acquaintance with it,
‘Idleness is the parent of love.’ Can’t you sing something in praise of
a good dinner? Everybody who works hard has an appetite for food.”
The singer again fixed on Kenelm his inquiring eye, but not detecting a
vestige of humour in the grave face he contemplated, was rather puzzled
how to reply, and therefore remained silent.
“I perceive,” resumed Kenelm, “that my observations surprise you: the
surprise will vanish on reflection. It has been said by another poet,
more reflective than Ovid, that ‘the world is governed by love and
hunger.’ But hunger certainly has the lion’s share of the government;
and if a poet is really to do what he pretends to do,--namely, represent
nature,--the greater part of his lays should be addressed to the
stomach.” Here, warming with his subject, Kenelm familiarly laid his
hand on the musician’s shoulder, and his voice took a tone bordering on
enthusiasm. “You will allow that a man in the normal condition of health
does not fall in love every day. But in the normal condition of health
he is hungry every day. Nay, in those early years when you poets say he
is most prone to love, he is so especially disposed to hunger that
less than three meals a day can scarcely satisfy his appetite. You may
imprison a man for months, for years, nay, for his whole life,--from
infancy to any age which Sir Cornewall Lewis may allow him to
attain,--without letting him be in love at all. But if you shut him up
for a week without putting something into his stomach, you will find him
at the end of it as dead as a door-nail.”
Here the singer, who had gradually retreated before the energetic
advance of the orator, sank into the seat by the elm-tree and said
pathetically, “Sir, you have fairly argued me down. Will you please to
come to the conclusion which you deduce from your premises?”
“Simply this, that where you find one human being who cares about love,
you will find a thousand susceptible to the charms of a dinner; and if
you wish to be the popular minne-singer or troubadour of the age, appeal
to nature, sir,--appeal to nature; drop all hackneyed rhapsodies about a
rosy cheek, and strike your lyre to the theme of a beefsteak.”
The dog had for some minutes regained his master’s side, standing on
his hind legs, with the tray, tolerably well filled with copper coins,
between his teeth; and now, justly aggrieved by the inattention which
detained him in that artificial attitude, dropped the tray and growled
at Kenelm.
At the same time there came an impatient sound from the audience in the
tea-garden. They wanted another song for their money.
The singer rose, obedient to the summons. “Excuse me, sir; but I am
called upon to--”
“To sing again?”
“Yes.”
“And on the subject I suggest?”
“No, indeed.”
“What! love, again?”
“I am afraid so.”
“I wish you good evening then. You seem a well-educated man,--more shame
to you. Perhaps we may meet once more in our rambles, when the question
can be properly argued out.”
Kenelm lifted his hat, and turned on his heel. Before he reached the
street, the sweet voice of the singer again smote his ears; but the only
word distinguishable in the distance, ringing out at the close of the
refrain, was “love.”
“Fiddle-de-dee,” said Kenelm.