himself until he had seen a man of law. But though Stubbs kept the news
to himself he was unable to disguise its effects. If the truth must be
told, Stubbs was a short-tempered, tyrannical man, habitually cruel and
contemptuous to the wife of his bosom. She had for a short time after
marriage attempted to assert her position and maintain her individuality.
But Stubbs being a Republican and a Freethinker, stood upon his undoubted
rights, reduced his wife to what he described as her “proper spear,” and
became thenceforward and for ever “mawster in his hown ’ouse.” As he
himself explained to the President of the Republican Circle—an
influential society holding weekly meetings at the “Six Bells,”—
“I said as ’ow I’d break her, an’ she’s broke.”
On the same evening that brought to Mr. Stubbs the intelligence
concerning the Missing Heiress, Mrs. Stubbs was in a great distress of
mind because she was behindhand with her husband’s tea. A domestic
failure of this kind was always calculated to arouse the dormant
eloquence of her lord. Indeed, a very trivial shortcoming on the part of
Mrs. Stubbs was apt to bring down on her devoted head hard words and
sometimes, I regret to say, hard blows. In her efforts to expedite
matters on this particular evening, Mrs. Stubbs—as is occasionally the
case—instead of forwarding domestic affairs had delayed them. And when
the door suddenly opened, and her irate lord stood on the threshold,
_she_ stood in the midst of a “confusion worse confounded.” With
trembling accents, and not daring to lift her eyes, she faltered,—
“I’m so sorry I’m a bit late, John, but—”
To her intense surprise, John replied in tones more faltering and
deferential than her own,—
“It’s orright, Mary, dear. Better late than never, don’t ye know.”
“He calls me ‘dear,’” said Mary to herself, lifting her eyes to ascertain
whether her husband was sober. Yes. He was evidently under no alcoholic
influence. And yet there he stood, blushing, stammering, and holding in
his hand the hat which heretofore in his own house he invariably carried
on his head.
“I’m afraid,” he said, hesitatingly, and blushing more than ever. “I’m
afraid I’ve been a bit inattentive to you, Mary.”
As Mary had never had to complain of his want of attention she very
wisely replied,—
“Not at all, John.”
“But I ’_ave_,” he insisted, “and you’re lookin’ pale like. Let’s git
our tea over an’ go to a theayter.”
The surprise of Mrs. Stubbs blossomed into a wild and astounded
amazement. She looked straight at Mr. Stubbs to see whether he was in
earnest, and coming to the conclusion that sincerity was defined there,
she deliberately went up to her husband and kissed him. He submitted to
the infliction with a good grace, though still blushing consumedly. The
play was to Mrs. Stubbs the height of earthly bliss. She was a person of
small intellect and simple tastes, and followed with childlike wonder the
moving histories illustrated on the stage. It mattered not to her
whether the play was comedy or tragedy; burlesque or melodrama. There
were colour and ornament and music. These sufficed. And from the rise
of the curtain till its fall she watched the proceedings open-mouthed and
wondering. That her husband should not only permit her to enjoy her
favourite amusement, but absolutely offer himself to accompany her to the
theatre overwhelmed her, and so in the first moment of surprise she had
kissed him.
His conduct all through the evening was delightful. He comported himself
like a very squire of dames; purchased for her ginger-beer and oranges,
and reminded her, as she coyly suggested, of the happy days of their
courtship. His conduct then was but a foretaste of his conduct for many
days to come. He discovered that Mary was overworked, and insisted on
having a girl in to assist her in the house. Every moment, when not
employed in his small shop—it was little better than a stall—he spent in
his house, usually appearing with a votive offering in the shape of a
lobster or a basket of mushrooms, or even a box of chocolate creams.
Except on “meeting evenings,” he never now entered the “Six Bells,” but
spent the precious hours at home like a devoted husband, smoking his
pipe, sipping gin and water, and reading for her such extracts from the
daily broadsheets as contained no allusion direct or remote to Missing
Heiresses.
The lawyer who had been consulted by Mr. Stubbs was like his client, a
Member of the Republican Circle. Also, like his client, he was a
Socialist and Freethinker; and his name was Chatham. From the first
instruction given him by Mr Stubbs, he expressed the greatest confidence
in the claim of his wife, and prosecuted his inquiries with the utmost
zeal and goodwill. Mr. Stubbs had at the time of his important discovery
a hundred pounds in the bank. The most of this money soon found its way
into the office of Mr. Chatham. Inquiries of the kind cost something.
There are so many journeys to be made, so many witnesses to be
interviewed; so many reams of foolscap to be crossed, all at the rate of
so much per folio. But Mr. Stubbs, strong in the belief that his wife
would soon be worth untold gold grudged none of it. Indeed, when it was
all gone, he borrowed other sums. It was, after all, only the proverbial
sprat to catch the proverbial whale. The blubber would repay him when
realised. Until everything was made clear, however, he preferred to keep
his wife in the dark. And the interval—it could only be a short one—he
magnanimously devoted to cultivating the acquaintance of a helpmeet whom
he had long neglected.
When the hundred pounds had all gone, and when the obliging persons who
had lent him sums of money to “go on with,” became clamorous for
repayment, he had his moments of depression. He was, however, sustained
by the assurance of his lawyer, and consoled by the unremitting attention
of his wife. At times when the fit of melancholy was particularly bad,
he would break into some exclamation such as in less happy days he had
used to Mrs. Stubbs. But he immediately checked himself, and called her
his “angel,” and his “guiding star.” And she, poor woman, accepted the
amendment, soothed and comforted her ruffled consort, and expressed a
belief that his monetary troubles would soon be over.
Her prophecy was verified. His monetary troubles _were_ soon over. Once
again Mrs. Stubbs was expecting her husband’s return to tea. But there
was no confusion now. The table was laid, the kettle boiling, the bread
and butter cut, and the shrimps and water-cresses gracing the festive
board. The master of the house was late. But he would soon return, no
doubt bearing a peace-offering—now invariably delivered to his spouse
when he failed to be punctual. She was thus reflecting when the door
burst suddenly open, and John Stubbs entered with his hat on his head.
His face was pale, his eyes seemed to start from his head. He approached
the table, struck it with his closed fist and—I regret to have to record
it—called his wife “a she devil.” It was one of the dear old words of an
earlier and more tempestuous period. She bore it in silence. But when
he yelled,—
“She’s found, you swindler! D’ye hear, y’imposter, the real Heiress is
found, ye deceitful hussy,” she was puzzled beyond measure.
“Where’s my money?” he howled, as he pulled the cloth from the table and
dashed the shrimps and water-cresses to the ground. “Where’s my hundred
pounds. Where’s the money I spent in bonnets an’ in theayters an’ in
chocolate creams? Eh, you thing! _You_ born on a doorstep! Bah!”
He then proceeded to demolish the furniture, and his wife displaying that
discretion which is the better part of valour, watched her opportunity,
and when his back was turned fled out into the street. She believed that
he was mad. Perhaps he was—for he managed that night to fall into the
river and die there. After the inquest the members of the Republican
Circle, with whom he was deservedly popular, gave him a semi-public
funeral with banners and music. Towards the cost of the obsequies Mr.
Chatham contributed a guinea. And to this day Mrs. Stubbs, who is doing
very well in the laundry line of business, has never been able to guess
the cause of her deceased husband’s insanity.
XV.
_TEDDY MARTIN’S BRIEF_.
TEDDY MARTIN occupied chambers in Lime Court, Temple. His rooms were
situated on the first floor, and from his front window the visitor could
command an uninterrupted view of the sun-dial over the way, upon which
was inscribed one of those useful moral legends which in earlier times
our rude forefathers were accustomed to carve upon such slabs as marked
the flight of time. Those who trod the well-worn flags of Lime Court
would sometimes hear the tinkling of a piano welling out over the
geraniums in those front windows, and sometimes the piano would tinkle an
accompaniment to snatches of opera-bouffe sung by a showy but somewhat
unsympathetic female voice. Barristers’ clerks passing beneath and
hearing this harmony would wink knowingly at each other, and interchange
opinions regarding the Martin _ménage_.
All the world knows of Martin’s celebrated “Crystal Ale” at nine
shillings the nine-gallon cask. Teddy Martin was the son of the maker of
that famous brew. It will be, therefore, inferred that the young man was
not quite so dependent on the support of solicitors as other members of
his Inn. Indeed, his allowance was so large as to make him the envy of
many brilliant but impecunious members of the Junior Bar, who hated him
for his prosperity, and grudged him the briefs which at long intervals
were confided to his care.
Like many other young gentlemen of taste and fortune, Teddy Martin was a
persistent supporter of the British Drama. He was quite catholic in his
tastes. Irving was not too dull for him; nor was the Gaiety too fast.
If, indeed, the truth must be told, he preferred those theatres at which
burlesque entertainment formed the staple fare; and even found amusement
in the festive society of those vestals whose agreeable mission it is to
keep burning the sacred lamp of burlesque. He formed acquaintance with
the ladies of the chorus. A member of the Junior Bar, he cultivated the
society of members of the Junior Stage.
It was the voice of one of these sirens which woke the echoes in Lime
Court after the shadows had fallen and the lamp had been lit in the court
below, and which scandalised Mr. Solon, Q.C., struggling with a brief of
several hundred folios in the chambers beneath.
Martin has never inquired into my domestic secrets, and I have no wish to
inquire into Martin’s. Topsy Varden, it is true, left the stage shortly
after she had become acquainted with Mr. Martin; had appeared in his
chambers, and had taken possession of his piano. I have met her there,
but know no more than the porter whether she resided in Lime Court _en
permanence_ or whether she only visited Mr. Martin, for whom she seemed
to have a great partiality. Perhaps she came early in the morning and
returned late at night to her mother in Camden Town.
At that time I was writing dramatic notices for the _Slough of Despond_—a
Society organ—and was, when I visited Teddy’s chambers, the subject of a
vast amount of agreeable wheedling on the part of Miss Varden, who
assured me that she never would be happy off the stage—_that_ she
wouldn’t; that she knew of my influence with Jones of the Royal Bandbox,
and with Robinson of the Royal Potentates’ Theatres, and that if I didn’t
get her a “shop” at one of the houses in question I was a wretch—_that_ I
was. In fact, she talked of nothing else; didn’t appear to know anything
that was going on in the world, and never read any newspaper except the
_Mummers’ Mouthpiece_.
One morning I called on Teddy Martin, and found him at breakfast. Topsy
had arrived very early that morning, apparently, for she was at breakfast
with her admirer, and had done him the compliment to come in a white
morning gown, with wonderful arrangements in lace at the throat and
wrists. I found the ingenuous Martin in high glee over a brief for the
prosecution in a case in which he was to appear that day at the Old
Bailey.
“Come with me, my boy,” he exclaimed; “it’s a great case. And if only my
learned leader _would_ absent himself, I’d give them a taste of my
quality.”
I had nothing better to do, and consented.
“Take _me_ too,” said Miss Topsy, with an admirable affectation of
piteous imploring. It was bad enough for Topsy to visit at his chambers,
but he was not likely to run the risk of flaunting her gay presence in
the temple of justice herself. He put her off with a kind word, adding:
“But you’ll be here when we return; we’ll all go to dinner at Verrey’s,
have a box at the theatre, and enjoy ourselves amazingly, eh? And you’ll
come with us, old fellow, won’t you?”
Again I consented. We took leave of the fair young creature, and when we
got to the bottom of the court, heard strains of “The Blue Alsatian
Mountains” trilling over the flower-boxes on the window-sill.
“Capital girl that,” said Teddy, pressing my arm; “good as gold—all
heart, and that sort of thing.”
“Of course,” I answered. The expression of one’s real sentiments under
such circumstances is not only extremely ill-bred, but it will most
assuredly serve to fan the flame in your friend’s heart, and gain for
yourself his everlasting distrust. So I said “Of course,” and we tramped
through Fleet Street, up Ludgate Hill, and turned into the Old Bailey,
closely followed by Teddy’s little clerk bearing Teddy’s blue bag, with
his initials beautifully worked in white silk on the outside.
The case in which Teddy was concerned lasted all day. But besides
opening it in a somewhat abashed and hesitating way, and thereafter
cross-examining an utterly unimportant witness, I could not see that
Teddy had much more to do with the case than myself, who had been
accommodated with a seat in the row of benches apportioned to the bar,
situated just behind my friend. All the real work was performed by Mr.
Rowland, Q.C., who prosecuted for the Treasury; and to his skill,
resource, and mastery of details, it appeared to me, the conviction of
the prisoner was entirely attributable. I merely mention this because I
subsequently heard Teddy take to himself all the credit of having secured
the verdict on that memorable occasion.
After the unfortunate man in the dock had been sentenced and removed to
the seclusion of his cell, Teddy packed up his papers, stuffed them into
his bag, and leaving that receptacle to be removed by his clerk,
accompanied me back to Lime Court. The piano was still going, and the
voice of the siren gave forth the brisk chorus of a bouffe drinking-song.
Topsy Varden must have visited her home with her mother in Camden Town
during our absence in Court, for she had abandoned the white breakfast
gown of the morning, and was arrayed in a costly dinner dress, so
arranged as to exhibit a great amount of her arms and chest. As Teddy
saluted her it was evident that his admiration was sincere. Her
reciprocal expression was that of an actress—hollow, insincere,
worthless.
“I’ve had such a win, Topsy!”
“Have you been bettin’? Am I on?” were the rapid questions of this child
of art.
“You little silly! I mean at the Old Bailey. I’ve got my man convicted.
He’s to be hanged by the neck until death by strangulation ensues.”
“La!” exclaimed Topsy. She would have been much more interested if the
win had been on the turf. She, however, thought it well to add, “What
did he do?”
“Shot a bobby—desperate character—think he’d have shot _me_ if he’d had a
chance. Funny defence that,” he said, turning to me.
The defence had been that his brain had been turned—that he had been a
respectable working man until a dearly beloved sister of his had left him
and “gone wrong.” He had been “queer” ever since, said some of the
witnesses. But that was surely no reason why he should go about the
streets shooting policemen. So the jury did its duty and the judge did
_his_—with a black cap on his head.
As this explanation of the defence was given, I noticed that Topsy’s
expressionless face grew pale, and her bosom rose and fell quickly above
her dress. Her voice was thick as she asked,—
“And—who—was—he? What—was—his—name?”
My friend replied briefly,—
“Jabez Omrod.”
Topsy sprang towards him with flashing eyes, as though to clutch his
throat; but before she could accomplish her object, she fell back, and in
falling moaned almost inarticulately,—
“You have killed my brother!”
* * * * *
Since that day Teddy has never held a brief, nor does he appear anxious
to hold one. His interest in the minor ornaments of the drama has
considerably abated. I know not what has become of the ill-fated Topsy.
Perhaps she has returned for good to her mother in Camden Town.
XVI.
_BLUEBEARD’S CUPBOARD_.
MR. AUGUSTUS LINCOLN was the manager of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey
Island. He was an actor of the old school, and illustrated with great
success the charnel house department of dramatic literature. Regarded
simply from an artistic point of view, the performances given at the
Theatre Royal may be described as fine and even formidable
representations, but commercially considered they could scarcely be
regarded as triumphs. The Sheppey Islanders were, at the time of which
we are writing, people of a low and degraded taste, and showed a
grovelling preference for the entertainments given at the music-halls.
The permission to indulge in beer and tobacco, which is accorded in Caves
of Harmony, may have had something to do with this preference; but it
must be admitted that the Islanders considered “Hamlet,” “The Stranger,”
and “The Iron Chest,” a trifle gloomy, even when illuminated by the
genius of Mr. Augustus Lincoln. Indeed, had it not been for an accident,
this enterprising lessee and manager would have been obliged, long before
the incidents about to be related, to shut up his theatre and appear in a
highly popular _rôle_ on the stage of the Bankruptcy Court.
Mr. Lincoln’s accident was the Amateur. That most industrious and most
sanguine of mortals, having hawked his comedies, melodramas, and romantic
plays to all the London managers with all the customary want of success,
determined that Something must be Done. If caterers in the West End,
blind to their own interests, and careless of the intellectual elevation
of their patrons, refused to give him a show, as the bald phraseology of
the stage has it, the amateur, with fine philanthropic feeling,
determined to give himself a show. Now the Theatre Royal, Sheppey
Island, was very often closed, and on such occasions, when he could raise
a sufficient sum to pay for the advertisement, the circumstance was duly
announced in the _Era_. It was through the medium of that highly
diverting miscellany that Lincoln and the Amateur were brought together.
And from the moment that introduction was effected, Lincoln never knew
what it was to have the brokers in the house, an incident which, up to
that time, was of not unfrequent occurrence.
The manager was an enthusiast in his way, and threw his whole heart and
soul into playing the leading characters in the amateur comedies,
melodramas, and romantic plays which he placed on his stage. And the
ambitious authors who resorted to this means of publicity, were as a
rule, so extremely pleased with the histrionic efforts of Mr. Lincoln,
that in addition to the sum agreed upon for the representation, most of
the mute inglorious ones would insist on making a little present to the
conscientious manager-actor. But Mr. Lincoln was as proud as an
Elliston, and carried himself with as much dignity. So that whenever the
token of the Amateur’s gratitude was offered in the shape of money, the
offended manager would draw himself grandly up and say, “Sir, I cannot
accept a gift of money; though should you like to present me with a new
hat, I shall not say you nay.” The Amateur usually took the hint, and in
a few days a band-box containing a hat, was duly delivered at the stage
door of the Theatre Royal. Yet strange to say, no Sheppey Islander had
ever seen Mr. Lincoln in a new hat. Indeed, they had never seen him
except in a very old one, which by a judicious use of oil and a silk
handkerchief, showed bravely enough when cocked on the side of Mr.
Lincoln’s head.
It is, of course, easy to guess the reason of this. The Amateur donors
never thought of consulting their benefactor as to the size of his head,
or as to the peculiar shape which he most affected. And so it happened,
that not one of the head-dresses sent to him was of any practical
benefit. For if it happened to be anything like a fit, it was sure to be
of a shape to which Mr. Lincoln would not condescend. He had not,
however, discarded them, but had placed them carefully in a cupboard in
his bedroom, which cupboard he always kept carefully locked, carrying the
key of it on his bunch. At rare intervals he would exhibit his
collection to some old crony—just as a collector would show his pictures,
or a connoisseur his cellar. Connected with each hat was a memory. The
entire assortment was a sort of history of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey
Island, and as he pointed out the trophies he would couple with each the
name of the amateur drama, the triumphant success of which it was
intended to commemorate. Thus he would point to a tall beaver, with
preposterous brim, such as comic artists place on the head of John Bull,
and say,—“That is my Queen of Circassia’s hat;” or he would exhibit a
light gossamer of most undoubtedly dandaical proportions, saying,—“That
is my Murdered Monk’s hat;”—so on through the collection. There was a
“Prodigal Son’s” hat, and an “Act on the Square” hat. The hat of the
“Pilgrim Fathers—a Nautical Drama,” and the hat of “The Little Pig that
Paid the Rent; an Irish Tragedy.”
Mr. Lincoln was more proud of his hats than of any other circumstance
connected with his theatrical career—save one, and that was, that Mr.
Gladstone had seen him play Hamlet and had expressed himself entirely
satisfied with the performance.
In an evil moment, and at the mature age of fifty-two, Mr. Augustus
Lincoln fell in love, and as often happens with the intellectually great,
he fell in love with the very last person in the world whom he ought to
have sought. Milly Brassey was a pert, pink-cheeked, saucy-eyed beauty,
who played chamber-maid parts in his company. The Amateurs thought very
much of Milly, and as she was not proud in the matter of receiving
presents, it may be taken for granted that the sealskin jacket and
diamond rings came from the gifted creatures whose works she had helped
to illustrate. Off the stage she was a giddy, giggling little woman,
always ready for a flirtation, and was madly loved by the _jeune
premier_, and the low comedian of the company. Indeed, it is a matter of
notoriety that a hostile meeting would have taken place between these
jealous lovers had it not transpired that Milly was about to be led to
the altar by the manager himself. So instead of meeting in Greenwich
Park over the murderous muzzles of revolvers, they met in the “Goat and
Compasses” over two glasses of cold gin.
Lincoln’s wedding was a very quiet affair. After all, no such very great
change was to take place in the life of the bride. She was already a
member of Lincoln’s company. She had now become a member of his
household as well. Milly was a clever little actress, and if she did not
really love her husband, she made that devoted man think that she did.
His faith in her was unlimited, and although others thought that she
flirted alternately with Philip Beresford, the _jeune premier_, and with
Alf. Wild, the low comedian, Lincoln with a firm belief in his wife’s
honesty and a still firmer belief in his own charms, saw nothing
whatever. He was perfectly contented, and the amateurs, increasing in
perseverance and impatience, brought him month after month new dramas for
illustration, and new hats in token of esteem.