MR. EFFINGHAM'S PROGRESS.
When Mr. Effingham returned to town after his signal discomfiture at
Redmoor by Miss Gillespie, he had only two objects in view: one to
prevent Griffiths finding out that he had gone so near to achieving
success, but yet had failed; the other to find out whither the young
woman, who had so cunningly betrayed him, had betaken herself. The
first was not very difficult. The meeting with the object of his
search down at a country-house far away in Devon was too improbable to
present itself to a far more brilliantly gifted person than Mr.
Griffiths; while the receipt of five sovereigns (Sir Charles's
donation had this time been represented at twenty-five pounds only)
gave that gentleman an increased opinion of his friend's powers of
persuasion, and rendered him hopeful for the future.
The accomplishment of the second object was, however, a different
matter. Mr. Effingham's innate cunning taught him that after all he
had said to Miss Gillespie--or Lizzie Ponsford--about the source of
his instructions, the company of her old acquaintances--Messrs. Lyons,
Griffiths, Crockett, and Dunks--was about the last she would be likely
to affect; and yet in their society only would he have opportunities
of seeking her. Through the oft-threaded mazes of that tangled web, in
and out, from haunt to haunt, Mr. Effingham once more wended his
way,--asking every one, prying into every corner, listening to every
conversation,--all to no purpose. He began to think that the object of
his search must have departed from her original intention, and instead
of coming up to London, have halted on the way; but then, what could
she have done alone, unaided, without resources, in any provincial
town? Mr. Effingham took to frequenting the Devonshire public-houses
and coffee-shops,--queer London holes kept by Devonshire people, who
yet preserved a little clannish spirit, who took in a Devon paper, and
whose houses were houses-of-call for stray children of the far West,
sojourning for business or pleasure in London. Many a long talk was
there in Long Acre or Smithfield, surrounded by the foetid atmosphere
and the dull rumblings of metropolitan life, of the Exe and the Dart,
of the wooded coast of Dawlish and the lovely bay of Babbicombe,
of purple moor and flashing cataract, of wrestling-matches and
pony-fairs. The cads who dropped in for an accidental half-pint stared
with wonder at the brown countrymen, on whom the sun-tan yet remained,
who talked a language they had never heard, in an accent they could
not understand; who had their own jokes and their own allusions, in
which the jolly landlord and his wife bore their part, but which were
utterly unintelligible to the cockney portion of the customers. In
these houses, among the big burly shoulders of the assembled
Devonians, Mr. Effingham's perky little head was now constantly seen.
They did not know who he was; but as he was invariably polite and
good-natured, took the somewhat ponderous provincial badinage with
perfect suavity, and was always ready to drink or smoke with any of
them, they tolerated his presence and answered his questions
respecting the most recent arrivals from their native county civilly
enough. But all was unavailing; to none of them was the personal
appearance of Miss Gillespie known. The presence of any stranger in
their neighbourhood would not have passed unnoticed; but of the few
sojourners who were described to him, none corresponded in the least
to that person whom he sought so anxiously.
Would she not attempt to persevere in the new line of life which she
had filled at Redmoor and succeeded in so admirably? As governess and
companion she had been seemingly happy and comfortable; as governess
and companion she would probably again try her fortune. Forthwith Mr.
Effingham had a wild desire to secure the services of a desirable
young person to superintend the studies of his supposititious niece;
and Mrs. Barbauldson, who kept a "governess agency," and Messrs.
Chasuble and Rotchet, who combined the providing of governesses and
tutors with "scholastic transfers," vulgarly known as "swopping
schools," the engagement of curates, and the sale of clerical
vestments and ecclesiastical brass-ware, were soon familiarized with
Mr. Effingham's frequent presence. He dropped in constantly at their
establishments, and took the liveliest interest in the registers,
looking through not merely the actual list of candidates for
employment, but searching the books for the past three months. He paid
his half-crown fees with great liberality, or else the manner in which
he used to bounce in and out the waiting-room and examine the features
of the ladies there taking their turn to detail the list of their
accomplishments to the clerk, was, to say the least of it, irregular,
and contrary to the regulations of the establishment. But all to no
purpose,--he could learn nothing of any one in the remotest degree
resembling Miss Gillespie: his search among the governess-agencies had
been as futile as his visits to the Devonshire public-houses, and all
Mr. Effingham's time and trouble had been spent in vain.
What should he try next? He really did not know. He had, ever since
his visit to Redmoor, been rather shy of Mr. Griffiths, fearing lest
that worthy person might learn more than it was necessary, in Mr.
Effingham's opinion, he should know. Griffiths was to him a very
useful jackal, and it was not meet that the jackal's opinion of the
lion's sagacity and strength should be in any way diminished. Chance
had so far favoured him that Mr. Griffiths had recently been absent
from town, having accepted a temporary engagement of an important
character, as occasional croupier, occasional doorkeeper, to a
travelling band of gamblers, who were importing the amusing games of
French hazard and roulette into some of the most promising towns in
the Midland Counties.
One night Mr. Effingham was sitting in a very moody state at
"Johnson's," sipping his grog and wondering vaguely what would be the
next best move to make in his pursuit of Miss Gillespie, when raising
his eyes, they encountered Mr. Griffiths,--Mr. Griffiths, and not Mr.
Griffiths. Gone was the tall shiny hat, its place occupied by a
knowing billy-cock; gone were the rusty old clothes, while in their
place were garments of provincial cut indeed, but obviously costly
material; a slouch poncho greatcoat kept Mr. Griffiths's body warm,
while Mr. Griffiths's boots, very much contrary to their usual custom,
were sound and whole, and hid Mr. Griffiths's feet from the garish eye
of day. Moreover, Mr. Griffiths's manner, usually a pleasing compound
of the bearing of Ugolino and the demeanour of the Banished Lord, was,
for him, remarkably sprightly. He threw open the swing-door, and
brought in his body squarely, instead of butting vaguely in with the
tall hat, as was his usual custom; he walked down the centre of the
room, instead of shuffling round by the wall; and advancing to the box
in which Mr. Effingham was seated in solitary misery, he clapped him
on the back and said, "D'Ossay, my buck, how are you?"
The appearance, the manner, and the swaggering speech had a great
effect on Mr. Effingham. He looked up, and after shaking hands with
his friend, remarked, "You've been doin' it up brown, Griffiths,--you
have. They must have suffered for this down about Hull and Grimsby, I
should think?" And with a comprehensive sweep of his forefinger he
took in Griffiths's outer man from his hat to his boots.
"Well, it warn't bad," said Mr. Griffiths, with a bland smile. "The
yokels bled wonderful, and the traps kept off very well, considerin'
I'm pretty full of ochre, I am; and so far as a skiv or two goes, I'm
ready to stand friend to them as stood friend to me, D'Ossay, my boy.
No? Not hard up? Have a drink then, and tell us what's been going on."
The drink was ordered, and Mr. Effingham began to dilate on the
various phases of his pursuit of Lizzie Ponsford. As he proceeded, Mr.
Griffiths went through a series of pantomimic gestures, which with him
were significant of attempts to arouse a dormant memory. He rubbed his
head, he scratched his ear, he looked up with a singularly vacant air
at the pendent gas-light, he regarded his boots as though they were
strange objects come for the first time within his ken. At length,
when Mr. Effingham ceased, he spoke.
"It must have been her!" said he, ungrammatically but emphatically, at
the same time bringing his fist down heavily on the table to express
his assertion.
"What must have been her, Griffiths?" inquired Mr. Effingham, who was
growing irritated by the extremely independent tone of his usually
deferential subordinate,--"why don't you talk out, instead of
snuffling to yourself and makin' those faces at me? What must have
been her?"
Successful though he was for the time being, Mr. Griffiths had been
too long subservient to the angry little man who addressed him to be
able to shake off his bonds. He fell back into his old state of
submission, grumbling as he said:
"You're a naggin' me as usual, D'Ossay, you are! Can't let a cove
think for a minute and try and recollect what he'd 'eard,--you can't.
What I was tryin' to bring back was this--there's a cove as I know, a
theatrical gent, gets engagements for lakers and that, and provides
managers of provincial gaffs with companies and so on. He was down at
Hull, he was, and he come into our place one night with Mr. Munmorency
of the T. R. there, as often give us a look up; and when business was
over--we was rather slack that night--we went round to his 'otel to
have a glass. And while we was drinkin' it and talkin' over old times,
he says to me, 'Wasn't you in a swim with old Lyons and Tony Butler
once?' he says. 'Not once,' I says, 'but a good many times,' I says.
'I thought so,' he says; 'and wasn't there a handsome gal named
Ponsford, did a lot of business for them?' he says. 'There was,' I
says; 'fortune-tellin' and Mysterious-Lady business, and all that
gaff,' I says. 'That's it,' he says; 'I couldn't think where I'd seen
her before.' 'When did you see her last?' I says. 'About three weeks
ago,' he says, 'she come to me on a matter of business, and claimed
acquaintance with me; and though I knew the face and the name, I could
not think where I had seen her before.'"
"Didn't you ask him anything more about her?" said Mr. Effingham.
"No, I didn't. 'Twas odd, wasn't it? but I didn't. You see I wasn't on
your lay then, D'Ossay, my boy, and I was rather tired with hookin' in
the 'arf-crowns and calclatin' the bettin' on the ins and outs, and I
was enjoyin' my smoke and lookin' forward to my night's rest."
"What a sleepy-headed cove you are, Griffiths!" said Mr. Effingham
with great contempt. "What do you tell me this for, if this is to be
the end?"
"But this ain't to be the end, D'Ossay, dear! Mr. Trapman's come back
by this time, I dessay, and we'll go and look him up to-morrow and see
whether he can tell us anything of any real good about this gal. He's
a first-rate hand is Trapman, as knowin' as a ferret; and it won't do
to let him know what our game is, else he might go in and spoil it and
work it for himself. So just you hold your tongue, if we see him,
D'Ossay, and leave me to manage the palaver with him."
Mr. Effingham gave an ungracious assent to his companion's suggestion,
and, practical always, asked him to name a time for this meeting on
the next day. Mr. Griffiths suggested twelve o'clock as convenient for
a glass of ale and a biscuit, and for finding Mr. Trapman at home. So
the appointment was made for that hour; and after a little chat on
subjects irrelevant to the theme of this story, the worthy pair
parted.
The biscuit and the--several--glasses of ale had been discussed the
next day, and Mr. Griffiths was maunderingly hinting his desire to
remain at Johnson's for some time longer, when Mr. Effingham, burning
with impatience, and with the semblance of authority in him, insisted
upon his quondam parasite, but present equal, convoying him to the
interview with Mr. Trapman. Mr. Trapman's Dramatic Agency Office, so
notified in blue letters on a black board, was held at the Pizarro
Coffee-house in Beak Street, Drury Lane. A dirty, bygone, greasy,
used-up little place the Pizarro Coffee-house, with its fly-blown
playbills banging over its wire-blind, its greasy coffee-stained
lithograph of Signor Poleno, the celebrated clown, with his performing
dogs; its moss-covered basket, which looked as if it had been made in
a property-room, containing two obviously fictitious eggs. The
supporters of the Pizarro were Mr. Trapman's clients, and Mr.
Trapman's clients became perforce supporters of the Pizarro. When an
actor was, as he described it, "out of collar," he haunted Beak
Street, took "one of coffee and a rasher" at the Pizarro, and entered
his name on Mr. Trapman's books. The mere fact of undergoing that
process seemed to revivify him at once. He was on Trapman's books, and
would probably be summoned at an hour's notice to give 'em his Hamlet
at South Shields: a capital fellow, Trapman!--safe to get something
through him; and then the candidate for provincial histrionic honour
would poodle his hair under his hat and take a glance at himself in
the strip of looking-glass that adorned the window of the Roscius'
Head, and would wonder when that heiress who should see him from the
stage-box O.P., and faint on her mother's neck, exclaiming, "Fitzroy
Bellville for my husband, or immediate suicide for me!" would arrive.
There was a strange _clientèle_ always gathered round Mr. Trapman's
door so long as the great agent was visible, viz. from ten till five;
old men in seedy camlet cloaks with red noses and bleared eyes--"heavy
fathers" these--and cruel misers and villanous stewards and
hard-swearing admirals and libertine peers; dark sunken-eyed gray men,
with cheeks so blue from constant shaving that they look as if they
had been stained by woad; virtuous and vicious lovers; heroes of
romance and single walking-gentlemen; comic men with funny faces and
funny figures, ready to play the whole night through from six till
twelve, in four pieces, and to interpolate a "variety of singing and
dancing" between each; portly matrons--Emilias and Belvideras now-who
have passed their entire life upon the stage, and who at five years of
age first made their appearance as flying fairies; sharp wizen-faced
little old ladies, who can still "make-up young at night," and who are
on the lookout for the smart _soubrette_ and singing-chambermaid's
line; and heavy tragedians--these most difficult of all to provide
for-with books full of testimonials extracted from the potential
criticisms of provincial journals. The ladies looked in, made their
inquiries as to "any news," and went away to their homes again; but
the gentlemen remained about all day long, lounging in Beak Street,
leaning against posts, amicably fencing together with their ashen
sticks, gazing at the playbills of the metropolitan theatres, and
wondering when their names will appear there.
Through a little knot of these upholders of the mirror, Mr. Effingham
and Mr. Griffiths made their way up the dark dirty staircase past the
crowded landing, until they came into the sanctuary of the office.
Here was a dirty-faced boy acting as clerk, who exhibited a
strong desire to enter their names and requirements in a large
leather-covered book before him; but Griffiths caught sight of Mr.
Trapman engaged in deep and apparently interesting conversation with a
short dark man in a braided overcoat, and a telegraphic wink of
recognition passed between them. As it was the boy's duty to notice
everything, he saw the wink, and left them without further
molestation, until Mr. Trapman had got rid of his interlocutor, and
had come over to talk to them.
"Well, and how are you?" said he, slapping Mr. Griffiths on the
back.--"Servant, sir," to Mr. Effingham.--"And how _are_ you?" Slaps
repeated.
"Fust rate," said Mr. Griffiths, poking him in the ribs. "This is Mr.
Effingham, friend of mine, and a re-markably downy card!"
Wouldn't be a friend of yours if he wasn't, said Mr. Trapman, with
another bow to D'Ossay. "Well, and what's up? Given up the gaff, I
suppose. Seven to nine! all equal!--no more of that just now, eh?"
"No; not in town. Sir Charles Rowan and Colonel Mayne at Scotland
Yard, they know too much,--they do. No; I ain't here on business."
"No?" said Mr. Trapman playfully. "I thought you might be goin in for
the heavy father, Griffiths, or the comic countryman, since your tour
in the provinces."
Mr. Griffiths grinned, and declared that Mr. Trapman was "a chaffin'
him." "My friend, Mr. D'Ossay--Effingham is more in that line," he
said; "a neat figure, and a smart way he's got."
"Charles Surface, Mercushow, Roderigo,--touch-and-go comedy,--that's
his line," said Mr. Trapman, glancing at Mr. Effingham. "One
fi'-pun-note of the Bank of England, and he opens at Sunderland next
week."
Mr. Effingham had been staring in mute wonder at this professional
conversation; but he understood the last sentence, and thought enough
time had been spent in discussing what they didn't want to know. So he
put on his impetuous air and said to Griffiths, "Go in at him now!"
Thus urged, and taking his cue at once, Mr. Griffiths said, "No, no;
you've mistaken our line. What we want of you is a little information.
Oh, we're prepared to pay the fee!" he added, seeing Mr. Trapman's
face grow grave under a rapid impression of wasted time; "only--no
fakement; let's have it gospel, or not at all."
"Fire away!" said Mr. Trapman. "I'm here to be pumped--for a
sovereign!"
The coin was produced, and handed over.
"Now," said Mr. Trapman, having tested it with his teeth, and then
being satisfied, stretched out his arm in imitation of a pump-handle,
"go to work!"
"You recollect," said Griffiths, "telling me, when we met down at
Hull, that one of our old lot had been to see you lately--a girl
called Lizzie Ponsford."
"I do perfectly."
"It's about her we want to know--that's all."
"It ain't much to tell, but it was curous,--that it was. It's six
weeks ago now, as I was a-sittin' in this old shop, finishin' some
letters for the post, when I looked up and saw a female in the doorway
with a veil on. I was goin' on with my letters, takin' no notice, for
there's _always_ somebody here, in and out all day they are, when the
female lifted up her finger first warning-like, like the ghosts on the
stage, and then pointin' to Tom, the boy there, motioned that he
should go out of the room. I was a little surprised; for though I had
enough of that sort of thing many years ago, I've got out of it now. I
thought it was a case of smite; I did indeed. However, I sealed up the
letters, and told Tom to take 'em to the post; and then the female
came in, shuttin' the door behind her. When she lifted her veil, I
thought I knew the face, but couldn't tell where; however she soon
reminded me of that first-rate gaff, in--where was it?--out Oxford
Street way, where she did the Mysterious Lady, and Seenor Cocqualiqui
the conjurin', and Ted Spicer sung comic songs. I remembered her at
once then, and asked her what she wanted. 'An engagement,' she says.
'All right,' I says; 'what for?' 'Singin'-chambermaid, walkin'-lady,
utility, anything,' she says. 'Walkin'-lady, to grow into leadin' high
comedy, 's your line, my dear,' I says: 'you're too tall for
chambermaids, and too good for utility. Now, let's look up a place for
you.' I was goin' to my books, but she stopped me. 'I don't want a
place,' she says; 'I ain't goin' to stop in England; all I want from
you,' she says, 'is two or three letters of introduction to managers
in New York. You've seen me before the public; and though you've never
seen me act, you could tell I wasn't likely to be nervous or stammer,
or forget my words.' 'No fear of that,' I says. 'Very well then,' she
says, 'as I don't want to hang about when I get there, but want them
to give me an appearance at once, just you write me the letters,
and'--puttin' two sovereigns on the table--'make 'em as strong as you
can for the money.' Oh, a clever girl she is! I sat down to write the
letters, and in the middle of the first I looked up, and I says, 'The
bearer, Miss ----, what name shall I say?' 'Leave it blank, Mr.
Trapman, please,' says she, burstin' out laughin'; 'I haven't decided
what my name's to be,' she says; 'and when I have, I think I can fill
it in so that no one will know it ain't your writin'.' So I gave her
the letters and she went away; and that's my story."
Mr. Griffiths looked downhearted, and was apparently afraid that his
patron would imagine he had not had his money's worth; but Mr.
Effingham, on the contrary, seemed in much better spirits, and thanked
Mr. Trapman, and proposed an adjournment to the Rougepot close by in
Salad Yard, where they had their amicable glasses of ale, and
discussed the state of the theatrical profession generally.
When they had bidden adieu to Mr. Trapman and were walking away
together, Mr. Griffiths reverted to the subject of Miss Ponsford.
"There's an end of that little game, I s'pose," said he; "that
document's lost to us for ever."
"Wait!" said Mr. Effingham, with a grin; "I ain't so sure of that.
She's gone to New York, you see; now I know every hole and corner in
New York, and I'm known everywhere there, as well as any Yankee among
them. I could hunt her up there fifty times easier than I could in
London."
"I daresay," said Mr. Griffiths; "but you see there's one thing a
trifle against that; you ain't in New York."
"But I could go there, I s'pose, stoopid!"
"Yes; but how, stoopid? You can't pad the hoof over the sea; and them
steamers lay it on pretty thick, even in the steerage."
"I'm goin' to America within the next week, Griffiths, and I intend a
friend of mine to pay for my passage."
"What! the Bart. again?"
"Exactly. The Bart. again!"
"And what game are you goin' to try on with him now?"
"Ah, Griffiths, that's my business, my boy. All you've got to do is to
say goodbye to your D'Ossay to-night, for he's got to journey down to
that thunderin' old Devonshire again to-morrow; and before a week's
out he intends to be on the briny sea."
For the second time Mr. Effingham travelled down to Redmoor, and
obtained an interview with Sir Charles Mitford. He found that
gentleman very stern and haughty on this occasion; so Mr. Effingham
comported himself with great humility.
"Now, sir," said Sir Charles, "you've broken your word for the second
time. What do you want now?"
"I'm very sorry, Sir Charles--no intention of givin' offence, Sir
Charles; but--"
"You've not got that--that horrible bill?"
"N-no, Sir Charles, I haven't; but--"
"Then what brings you here, sir? more extortion?--a further attempt to
obtain money under false pretences?"
"No, no; don't say that, Sir Charles. I'll tell you right off. I may as
well make a clean breast of it. I can't find that document anywhere. I
don't know where it is; and I'm sick of cadgin' about and spongin' on
you. You know when I first saw you up in town I told you I'd come from
America. I was a fool to leave it. I did very well there; and I want
to go back."
"Well, sir?"
"Well, just as a last chance, do that for me. I've been true to you;
all that business of the young woman I managed first-rate--"
"I paid you for it."
"So you did; but try me once again."
"Tell me exactly what you want now."
"Pay my passage out. Don't even give me the money; send some cove to
pay it, and bring the ticket to me; and he can come and see me off, if
he likes, and give me a trifle to start with on the other side of the
water; and you'll never hear of me again."
Sir Charles reflected a few moments; then said, "Will you go at once?"
"At once-this week; sooner the better."
"Have you made any inquiries about ships?"
"There's one sails from Liverpool on Friday."
"On Friday-and to-day is Saturday; just a week. I shan't trust you in
the matter, Mr. Butler," said Sir Charles, taking up a letter lying on
the table. "I shall adopt that precaution which you yourself
suggested. A friend of mine, coming through from Scotland, will be in
Liverpool on Wednesday night. Yes," he added, referring to the letter,
"Wednesday night. I'll ask him to stop there a day, to take your
ticket and to see you sail; and with the ticket he shall give you
twenty pounds."
Mr. Effingham was delighted; he had succeeded better even than he had
hoped, and he commenced pouring out his thanks. But Sir Charles cut
him very short, saying:
"You will ask for Captain Bligh at the Adelphi Hotel; and recollect,
Mr. Butler, this is the last transaction between us;" and he left the
room.
"For the present, dear sir," said Mr. Effingham, taking up his hat;
"the last transaction for the present; but if our little New York
expedition turns up trumps, you and I will meet again on a different
footing."
On the Friday morning Mr. Effingham sailed from Liverpool for New York
in the fast screw-steamer Pocahontas, his ticket having been taken and
the twenty pounds paid to him on board by Captain Bligh, who stood by
leaning against a capstan while the vessel cleared out of dock.