AS Kenelm regained the street dignified by the edifice of the Temperance
Hotel, a figure, dressed picturesquely in a Spanish cloak, brushed
hurriedly by him, but not so fast as to be unrecognized as the
tragedian. “Hem!” muttered Kenelm, “I don’t think there is much triumph
in that face. I suspect he has been scolded.”
The boy--if Kenelm’s travelling companion is still to be so
designated--was leaning against the mantelpiece as Kenelm re-entered
the dining-room. There was an air of profound dejection about the boy’s
listless attitude and in the drooping tearless eyes.
“My dear child,” said Kenelm, in the softest tones of his plaintive
voice, “do not honour me with any confidence that may be painful. But
let me hope that you have dismissed forever all thoughts of going on the
stage.”
“Yes,” was the scarce audible answer.
“And now only remains the question, ‘What is to be done?’”
“I am sure I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Then you leave it to me to know and to care; and assuming for the
moment as a fact that which is one of the greatest lies in this
mendacious world--namely, that all men are brothers--you will consider
me as an elder brother, who will counsel and control you as he would
an imprudent young--sister. I see very well how it is. Somehow or other
you, having first admired Mr. Compton as Romeo or Richard III., made his
acquaintance as Mr. Compton. He allowed you to believe him a single
man. In a romantic moment you escaped from your home, with the design of
adopting the profession of the stage and of becoming Mrs. Compton.”
“Oh,” broke out the girl, since her sex must now be declared, “oh,” she
exclaimed, with a passionate sob, “what a fool I have been! Only do not
think worse of me than I deserve. The man did deceive me; he did not
think I should take him at his word, and follow him here, or his wife
would not have appeared. I should not have known he had one and--and--”
here her voice was choked under her passion.
“But now you have discovered the truth, let us thank Heaven that you are
saved from shame and misery. I must despatch a telegram to your uncle:
give me his address.”
“No, no.”
“There is not a ‘No’ possible in this case, my child. Your reputation
and your future must be saved. Leave me to explain all to your uncle.
He is your guardian. I must send for him; nay, nay, there is no option.
Hate me now for enforcing your will: you will thank me hereafter. And
listen, young lady; if it does pain you to see your uncle, and encounter
his reproaches, every fault must undergo its punishment. A brave nature
undergoes it cheerfully, as a part of atonement. You are brave. Submit,
and in submitting rejoice!”
There was something in Kenelm’s voice and manner at once so kindly and
so commanding that the wayward nature he addressed fairly succumbed.
She gave him her uncle’s address, “John Bovill, Esq., Oakdale, near
Westmere.” And after giving it, she fixed her eyes mournfully upon her
young adviser, and said with a simple, dreary pathos, “Now, will you
esteem me more, or rather despise me less?”
She looked so young, nay, so childlike, as she thus spoke, that Kenelm
felt a parental inclination to draw her on his lap and kiss away
her tears. But he prudently conquered that impulse, and said, with a
melancholy half-smile,--
“If human beings despise each other for being young and foolish, the
sooner we are exterminated by that superior race which is to succeed us
on earth the better it will be. Adieu, till your uncle comes.”
“What! you leave me here--alone?”
“Nay, if your uncle found me under the same roof, now that I know you
are his niece, don’t you think he would have a right to throw me out
of the window? Allow me to practise for myself the prudence I preach
to you. Send for the landlady to show you your room, shut yourself in
there, go to bed, and don’t cry more than you can help.”
Kenelm shouldered the knapsack he had deposited in a corner of the room,
inquired for the telegraph-office, despatched a telegram to Mr. Bovill,
obtained a bedroom at the Commercial Hotel, and fell asleep, muttering
these sensible words,--
“Rouchefoucauld was perfectly right when he said, ‘Very few people would
fall in love if they had not heard it so much talked about.’”