Lincoln’s company wanted a hat. Neither a _jeune premier_, nor a low
comedian, can afford an unstinted indulgence in hats on two pounds a
week, even when that modest stipend is regularly paid. Actors usually
carry large ulster-cloaks that cover a multitude of sins. But a bad hat
or a bad boot is always _en évidence_. To say that Milly was gifted with
curiosity is simply to say that Milly was a woman. That she soon began
to question her husband as to the contents of the locked cupboard,
therefore goes without saying. But although Lincoln would have trusted
her with almost any other secret, he was reticent concerning this. He
had a sort of prescience that the volatile Milly might turn his
collection into ridicule, and merely observing in answer to his wife’s
queries that it was “Bluebeard’s Cupboard,” refused to be further
cross-examined on the subject. Milly promised not to annoy him any more
in the matter, and religiously kept her promise; only when he was out she
tried every key in the house on the lock that kept her from a delightful
mystery, and at last she found one that fitted, and opening “Bluebeard’s
Cupboard” found it full,—not of heads without hats, but of hats without
heads. So full was the cupboard of these samples of the hatter’s art,
that she selected two, feeling confident, that from so large a bag, a
brace would never be missed. These she secreted, and when her husband
returned (he had gone to meet an Amateur, who was big with a tragedy
called “The Paralytic”), she met him with a kiss, and they were quite
happy till it was time to go to the theatre.
A week afterwards another Amateur wanted to see Mr. Lincoln. On this
occasion the appointment was made at a Club in Adelphi Terrace. The
interview was a short one, and Mr. Lincoln was able to bend his steps
eastward some two hours before the time he had mentioned to Milly. He
had to make a call in Greenwich, and in the Main Street of that
highly-depressing village, he happened to look over the blind in a
pastrycook’s window. He stopped suddenly, and shouted in a tone of the
utmost consternation, “My ‘Murdered Monk’s’ hat!” And then after a
pause, “My ‘Prodigal Son’s’ hat.” He looked again, and saw that the hats
covered the empty heads of Philip Beresford and Alf. Wild, between whom
sat his wife devouring open tarts, and laughing consumedly at her own
jokes. He entered stealthily, and soon heard enough to show that he, her
husband, was the subject of her witticisms. He strode up to them, and
smashed the hats over the heads of the wearers, calling them varlets and
minions. The Amateur of Adelphi Terrace had been good. So he was
enabled to put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, and withdraw six
sovereigns. Handing two to each, he said solemnly, “In lieu of a week’s
notice. Begone!” and then on his wife making a gesture of remonstrance,
he said, in louder tones, “D’ye hear. _All_ of ye. Begone!” They went.
And he has never seen any of them since.
XVII.
_TRUE TO POLL_.
IT was a splendid morning in the leafy month of June—though down by the
East India Docks “leafy” is scarcely the adjective which one would
naturally select to qualify any month of the whole twelve. It was the
morning on which Jack Tarpey, mariner, led Polly Andrews, spinster, to
the altar. There is no altar in a Registrar’s Office, consequently the
expression which I have used must be regarded as somewhat figurative.
But an altar is by no means essential to the civil ceremony, and Jack and
Poll were as much married as if they had been united by the Archbishop of
Canterbury himself, assisted by all the “Honourable and Reverends” in the
service of the Church of England, as by law established. There, in a
small parlour near the Commercial Road, Jack and Poll were made man and
wife, or, to put it in the forcible language of the former, “had tied a
knot with their lips as they couldn’t undo with their teeth.” The bride
was accompanied by a lady friend—for, alas! she was an orphan—while the
bridegroom was accompanied by his “shipmet,” young Joey Copper, who was
selected to discharge the onerous duties devolving upon him, for a reason
which may also be given in Jack’s own words: “Why,” he said, “do I ’ave
Joey for my best man? Stan’ by, mate, an’ I’ll tell ye. I ’ave’s Joey
for my best man because he _is_ the best man in all this ’ere blessed
world. That’s why I ’ave’s Joey, d’ye see?” It may be taken for granted
that they saw; because no one, having once asked the question, thought of
putting it a second time.
Breakfast was provided at the residence of the landlord of the
bridegroom, a house of public entertainment, at the corner of one of the
somewhat melancholy streets abutting on the East India Docks. The sign
of the house was the “Tartar Frigate,” and mine host had obligingly set
apart his back parlour for the entertainment of Jack and his party, now
increased by an addition of two other “shipmets.” The landlord of the
“Tartar Frigate” was not, perhaps, a Gunter, but he understood the tastes
of his patrons, and gave them what he called “a greasy and substawnshul
set out.” There was a fine round of boiled beef, with carrots, boiled
potatoes, and suet dumplings of great weight and sappiness. Following
this there was a liberal dish of plum-duff; and to wind up with, there
was half a Dutch cheese and pats of butter, about the composition of
which, the less said here or elsewhere the better. The more solid part
of the repast having been removed, all hands were piped to hot grog; a
fiddler was introduced into the apartment, and all was jollity and
dancing, until some difference of opinion arose between Jack’s male
guests, as to which of the three should claim Poll’s lady friend as a
partner. Jack, like the gallant and honest fellow that he was, stopped
all disputes by announcing that there was to be no quarrel on his
wedding-day, and that the proceedings, so far as he was concerned, were
at an end. Then the punctilious tar paid the reckoning, and conveyed his
wife to the apartments which she had engaged for them in Belt Alley, E.
A life on the Ocean Wave is regarded by some as the most jolly and
enjoyable of all possible lives. But it must be admitted that the Ocean
Wave is a relentless master, and has no more regard for the tender
feelings of the mariner, and those who are dear to him, than the whale
that swallowed Jonah. Jack and Poll had not been married three weeks,
before his ship—_The Promise of the May_—was ready for sea, and Jack was
ordered to join. Now I would call to my aid that which is not permitted
to the Unvarnished writer—the lyre of the poet. For how shall I attune
my harsh prose to the music of their sighs, the liquid measure of their
tears?
It came, that final, that inevitable scene.
They stood on the quay, his arms round her waist, her head on his manly
shoulder.
“Good-bye, lass,” he whispered, as he drew the back of his hand across
his eyes.
“Goo—goo—good-bye,” she said, in an agony of sobbing.
“You’ll always think o’ me, Poll?”
“Aw—aw—always,” she cried, shaken with emotion.
“An’ you’ll always be true to me?”
“Aw—aw—always,” she moaned.
“Kiss me, lass.”
Their lips met in a fervent salute. Then he was led away to his ship by
Joey Copper, his best man; and she, in a half fainting, half hysterical
state, was conducted back to her apartments by her faithful female
companion.
* * * * *
It was a splendid morning in the leafy month of August—for Samuel Taylor
Coleridge to the contrary, I cannot conceive why June should be held to
form a monopoly of leafiness—and Billy Bunting of the _Avalanche_ was
proceeding along Lantern Lane, close to the Docks, when he beheld a
female in distress. A hulking tramp with designs upon her purse, had
compelled the lady to stop, and she was crying in vain to the great brick
wall on either side, to help her. To “bear down upon” them, to call upon
the villain to “belay there;” to knock him senseless in the roadway, and
to offer his assistance to beauty in distress—to do all this, was, as is
well-known to those conversant with the literature of the Rolling
Deep—the work of a moment.
Billy loved a pretty face, and it was a pretty-one, of that plump and red
kind so admired by sailors, which through tears looked up at Billy now.
Giving the prostrate form of the tramp a kick, he gallantly offered his
arm to the maiden, saying,—
“I must tow you out of the way of that skulking land-shark, my beauty.”
She, nothing displeased, took the offered arm; and declared that she was
“_so_ obliged she couldn’t tell.”
“An’ wot’s yer name, my pretty poppet?”
“Polly,” she replied, with a blush that enhanced her many charms.
“An’ yer t’other name is—”
“Smith,” she replied, coyly.
“H’m. Wot d’ye think of Bunting as a name—come now?”
“Sweetly bee-utiful,” she murmured.
“That’s _my_ name.”
“No!” she exclaimed in a tone that betokened a delighted surprise.
Those who make long voyages must needs put up with short courtships, and
Billy Bunting had not been many days acquainted with Miss Smith before
she had promised to be his, and the marriage was duly solemnised at the
Little Bethel, Lancington St., by Mr. Morth, the esteemed pastor of that
conventicle. They spent the day at Gravesend, enjoying its natural and
artificial beauties, including the Rosherville Gardens, where they were
almost as happy as the advertisements of that pleasaunce would lead one
to suppose. And then they returned to their humble lodging in Belt
Alley, E.
Alas! for the brevity of human happiness. Poor Polly Andrews was no
sooner married to her Jack Tarpey than the _Promise of the May_ was
ordered on a twelve months’ voyage. And Polly Smith has been but a brief
fortnight the adored wife of Billy Bunting when the _Avalanche_ is ready
to go sailing about the world for a similar period. But, cheer up, brave
hearts! Courage, dear souls!
“There’s a sweet little Cherub that sits up aloft
To keep watch o’er the life of poor Jack.”
And the little Cherub who, from that elevated position, is solicitous
concerning the well-being of poor Jack, will no doubt exhibit an equal
solicitude in the case of poor Billy Bunting. But it is useless to
preach philosophy to breaking hearts. It was a sad scene that which took
place on the quay as Polly bid her Bill adieu. She could but hope; he
could but hope, and a year after all is only three hundred and sixty-five
miserable little days. It will soon be over.
But the _Avalanche_ was not to be a year out of port.
And here comes the interesting part of this strange narrative.
At the beginning of September, in the year of which I am writing, a very
violent and lasting gale burst over certain Northern latitudes. And
nowhere was that gale felt more severely than in the Bay of Biscay. Many
lives were lost in that ill-omened water—for why it should be called a
“Bay” while the Adriatic is called a “Sea,” I have never since the happy
days of boyhood been able to discover. The waves rose mountains high,
the wind blew a hurricane, and everything that out-lived the first fury
of the elements scudded along under bare poles. That everything did
_not_ out-live the first fury of the elements will appear presently.
One of the vessels encountering that memorable storm was the _Avalanche_.
She encountered it, and overcame it, but with considerable loss to
herself. Her mainmast had been snapped in two like a brittle twig. Her
canvas was in shreds, part of her bulwarks was swept away, and the pumps
were continually at work, to lessen the volume of water that half filled
her hold. Though all was calm now, she could not move.
“There she lay” several days, “in the Bay of Biscay O!” At last the
inevitable “sail in sight appeared.” It was a sail however that promised
no assistance. For when examined through the glass it appeared to be a
raft, with a solitary human being on board. There was much speculation
as it bore down upon them; at last the raft touched the _Avalanche_, and
its sole occupant, worn out with hunger, thirst, anxiety, and fear, was
helped up the side of the _Avalanche_, and fell upon the deck in a faint
that looked uncommonly like death. Unremitting attention and a judicious
administration of rum brought him to; and when he was sufficiently
restored he informed his rescuers that his name was Jack Tarpey, of the
_Promise of the May_; which doomed vessel having encountered the late
gales in the Bay succumbed to the last and worst, and went down with all
hands, save three who had taken to the raft, His two companions had died
of cold and exhaustion. He alone survived of all the crew.
Billy Bunting was a tender-hearted fellow, and “took to” this shipwrecked
mariner. They became indeed such chums that Jack bade fair to forget the
excellent Joey Copper: now no more. At last relief came to the
_Avalanche_, and the disabled vessel was assisted on her homeward way.
As the days sped on, the friendship between Jack and Billy increased.
They had a bond of sympathy in common. Both had married Polls, and both
these Polls lived in Belt Alley, E.
“She’s that fond o’ me, Jack—bless her,” Billy would say.
“Ah, she do love me, Bill—bless ’er old ’art,” Jack would reply.
It was a long and weary business getting the _Avalanche_ into dock. And
it was a long and weary time before Bill and Jack were allowed to go
ashore—for Jack had joined the crew of the _Avalanche_. But the day of
emancipation did eventually arrive. And more exultant mariners never
left a ship. Neither of these happy-go-lucky sons of Neptune could
remember the number of his house in Belt Alley, but each could swear to
the external appearance of it. So they chartered a four-wheeler, and as
they drove down the alley each had his eye on the window.
“Stop!” shouted Bill, “that’s my ’ouse.”
“An’ mine,” echoed Jack, thinking that affairs were now culminating
towards a coincidence. A blind was pulled suddenly down, and cabby
thought he heard boys practising with a pistol in the back-yard. The
mariners heard nothing. They were both knocking at the same door. There
was no answer. They knocked again. Still no answer. They broke the
door down. On the floor lay a plump, red-faced girl, shot through the
heart, a pistol in her hand. Both exclaimed at the same moment,—
“Polly!”
On searching her boxes, they found that she had piously preserved copies
of the certificates of her marriage to each—together with vouchers for
two other unions since contracted.
XVIII.
_JOHN PHILP_, _MASTER CARPENTER_.
ABOUT ten years ago Mr. Landor was the lessee and manager of the
Lugubreum Theatre, and John Philp was his master carpenter. In those
days the staple of the Lugubreum entertainment was melodrama, preceded by
farce. Mr. Landor found Philp, who was about thirty-five years of age,
exceedingly useful. He was quick, intelligent, and ingenious. He had
been brought up to the stage-carpentering business from his earliest
days, and had omitted to soak his faculties in gin, as is too often the
practice with gentlemen of his profession. Philp’s powers of invention
were indeed notorious, and many famous contrivances, without which
certain celebrated sensational scenes must have miserably failed, could
be traced to his suggestions. He was, withal, a modest, cheery-little
fellow, much beloved by his associates, and greatly respected by his
employer, who regarded him as one of his most valuable allies.
John Philp lived in a part of old Camberwell, that had not then been
disturbed by the invasion of the speculative builder. He rented a
substantially built little cottage of five rooms, with quite a large
garden in the back. Philp’s gardening was, it must be admitted, of a
somewhat theatrical kind. He had erected a flagstaff painted in stripes,
on the top of which was a weather-cock of his own contrivance—an
indicator which to the very last he believed told him what way the wind
blew. At the end of the garden was a formidable grotto—the effect of
which was somewhat marred by the introduction of pieces of coloured
glass. On the side walk were placed two wooden pedestals, also painted
in various bright colours; upon these stood statuettes of his favourite
great men. Upon one was William Shakespear—copied from the famous work
once erected in Garrick’s Villa, and now standing in the British Museum.
And upon the other was Mr. Dion Boucicault, appealing to the dog
Tatters—an animal which is often alluded to in the _Shaughraun_, but
never appears in that interesting production.
John Philp’s widowed mother lived with him in Artesian Cottages, and kept
house for him. She was a brisk, wholesome-looking old lady, and was very
proud of her son—as indeed she had a right to be—and would grow garrulous
about his merits, his personal beauty, and his infantile maladies, at the
mere mention of his name. John was very much attached to the old
lady—devoting his Sunday afternoons to her entertainment. What happy
days those were when she sat in an arbour in the Greyhound at Dulwich,
drinking tea, while John sipped his ale and smoked his pipe. What royal
times, too, when the funds permitted a trip to Gravesend; and when
shrimps and most marvellous water-cresses formed an addition to the
feast. And what words can describe that period of delirious excitement
when a buoyant exchequer and the closing of the Lugubreum for repairs,
permitted that memorable week at Margate. Alas! such happiness was to be
short-lived. And the beginning of the sorrow of Mrs. Philp was to be
mysteriously bound up with the success in this country of _opera bouffe_.
Mr. Landor was an astute man, and had no exalted notion of his functions
as a manager. He laughed at those who prated about “High Art,” and the
rest of it, and spoke of himself as a business man, whose object in life
was to make money, by supplying a certain commodity for which there
existed a public demand. Now the public demand for melodrama and farce
became very slack. Heavy villains and sensational “sets” became a drug
in the market; and Mr. Landor having duly weighed the pros and cons of
the matter, determined to alter the character of his theatre and make
_opera bouffe_ his leading suit. Old supporters of the Lugubreum
growled. But the public came. The dissemination of paper was stopped.
The free list was entirely suspended. And the Lugubreum was doing a
roaring trade. Philp still held his position as head carpenter, with
labours necessarily lightened, but with salary undiminished.
For the successful illustration of burlesque, one of the most essential
elements is a chorus of shapely young women, who have no objection to as
liberal a display of their personal charms as a manager may deem
advisable. And among the chorus ladies engaged to Mr. Landor was Miss
Carry Adair. This fascinating damsel was the daughter of a lodging-house
keeper in Islington, named O’Flaherty, and in assisting her mother—whose
education had been somewhat neglected—to cook the accounts of the young
city gentlemen who lodged with them, acquired those habits of caution and
economy, which have characterised her throughout her career. At the age
of eighteen she left her mother’s care, and was employed by a court
dressmaker in Bond Street in the capacity of a live model, to display to
their best advantage the goods of her employer. While acting in this
useful, if humble capacity, she was seen by Sir Mornington Cresswell, who
had come to inspect a court dress ordered by Lady Cresswell. Sir
Mornington is a well-known philanthropist, and took an immediate interest
in the young woman, urging her to take suitable apartments in the region
abutting on Regent’s Park, and finally obtaining for her an engagement at
the Lugubreum. Sir Mornington being one of those reserved and unassuming
Christians, who do not let the left hand know what the right is doing,
kept the latest instance of his kindly and discriminating philanthropy a
secret from his wife.
Carry Adair was a great success in her new vocation. She was tall, of
liberal contour, had big expressionless eyes, and masses of magnificent
brown hair. It was her mission in life to be “a doosid fine woman.” The
callow connoisseurs of the stalls proclaimed her to be a “doosid fine
woman.” And so her reputation was made, although as far as histrionic
capability is concerned, she was absolutely devoid of it. She was
withal, an excessively discreet young person, and was never known to
indulge in the unseemly jests, which, in the dressing-rooms, formed the
current coin of conversation; and, indeed, had been known on many
occasions to rebuke her companions when a _double entendre_ offended her
keen susceptibilities. It was this trait in her character which won the
sympathies of John Philp. He was sensible, no doubt, of her merely
physical attributes. But he regarded her as an innocent and artless
girl, thrown into the society of those who were by no means particular.
He longed to shield her from the evil which is in the world, and as a
preliminary to this missionary enterprise he fell hopelessly in love with
her. He had given himself, body and soul, to the thrall of a woman who
had no more capacity for an honest affection than the table upon which I
am writing.
And she—what did she do? She led him on. She permitted him to hold her
heavy sealskin as she enveloped herself in it. She permitted him to kiss
the diamonds that covered her fingers. And then in the very
dressing-room where she would not permit the use of an indelicate
expression, she mimicked the comic agony of her lover, for the
edification of the Lotties and the Totties who shrieked with laughter at
her irresistible sallies. For Carry was not without a certain flow of
vulgar humour, which she had acquired probably while waiting on her young
city gentlemen in the Islingtonian lodging-house. On the evening when
poor John Philp brought himself to ask the awful question, she was
particularly amusing. She showed how he blushed and stammered as he
described his little place in Camberwell; how he spoke of his mother’s
devotion; and the happy effects of living on a gravel soil. Then she
narrated with some spirit how she squeezed his hand, and begged for time
to consider the proposal. Carry being the possessor of some means, was
in the habit of treating her friends of the dressing room; so her jokes
all took immensely, and the Lotties and Totties agreed that poor John
Philp was an “old stoopid.”
* * * * *
About a fortnight after John Philp’s proposal, Landor was coming down the
steps of Evans’s Hotel in Covent Garden at twelve o’clock one night. He
was passed on the steps by Miss Adair, enveloped in a white satin opera
cloak, and apparently in full evening dress. She was on the arm of a
young gentleman with a little yellow moustache—an _avant courrier_ of
that Crutch and Toothpick Brigade which has since become famous. The
manager saw her enter a brougham which was waiting in front. She was
followed by the young gentleman, and was driven rapidly off. The vehicle
was followed on foot by a man with pale face and livid lips, and without
any hat on. In the face of that pursuing figure, Mr. Landor recognised
John Philp, the master carpenter. And being a man of the world he
shrugged his shoulders, lit another cigarette, and went on to the Garrick
Club, of which institution he is one of the most agreeable ornaments.
John Philp never again entered the stage-door of the Lugubreum. He threw
up his situation, alleging illness as an excuse. He wanted change of
air. Landor regretted his determination, and looked out for somebody to
take his place. Three months after he received a letter from his old
_employé_, asking him “for God’s sake” to come and see him. Landor went;
Artesian Cottage had evidently been somewhat neglected. The creepers
were trailing about in slovenly branches, and the little garden path was
covered with grass. Mrs. Philp looked worn and weary, and accompanied
with sobs the answers which she gave the manager. She led the way into
her son’s bedroom. He was a shadow of his former self, but a smile
overspread his countenance as he recognised his old master. He stretched
his poor transparent hand across the counterpane, and grasping the
manager’s hand, said feebly,—
“It _is_ kind of you, sir.”
Then he motioned his mother to leave the room.
“I’m breaking up fast, sir,” he said, “but afore I go I wished to give
you something—as—as a keepsake. You’ve been a good friend to me, sir,
but I’m afraid I seemed ungrateful.”
The manager answered him that he had always valued and respected him.
Then John put his hand under the pillow, and drew out a ring with a small
diamond set in it. This he handed to Landor.
“I bought it for her,” he stuttered; “I wanted to show her that a working
man could buy jewels as well as the swells. I pinched myself to get it,
an’ the very night I ’ad it in my pocket to give her, I followed her ’ome
to—to—I can’t say it, sir—it chokes me.”