That building which in Frewenham was now devoted to the drama, bore,
in general, but little resemblance to a theatre. It was a long narrow
room enclosed by four isolated walls, and had been built by an
enterprising master-mason as a speculation. It was the public room of
Frewenham. Here balls took place; here lectures were delivered; here
public meetings were held. It served all sorts of opposite purposes;
and here--where only a few days before an enthusiastic missionary
had collected plates-ful of money from the devout inhabitants of
Frewenham in aid of a project for convincing the Kaffirs, by the
power of moral reasoning, of the advantages of universal peace and
brotherhood, and subsequently forming them into a great South African
Tee-total Society--here such of the pleasure-loving portion of the
townsfolk as could command the price of admission, were now assembled
to witness Sheridan’s comedy.
One end of this room was divided from the rest, partly by a painted
wooden partition, which stretched across the ceiling and down the
sides, partly by a green baize curtain in the centre of it. In front
of the curtain flared and smoked a row of footlights, diffusing an
odour suggestive at once of train-oil and boiled mutton.
The stage being on the ground-floor, there was no pit, properly so
called--a row of forms, at a few feet from the footlights, evidently
represented the boxes, inasmuch as their occupants paid highest for
their seats; but this was the only advantage they possessed over the
pit and gallery behind them, except that the vapour of the footlights
was there inhaled in greater freshness and perfection. The orchestra
was raised on one side of the boxes, and consisted of a violoncello,
a serpent, and two fiddles, all belonging to the county militia.
The musicians were perfectly well known to the audience, which was
a great comfort to those impatient persons in the gallery, who had
stormed the door and rushed in about an hour and a half before the
play commenced, for they were enabled to relieve their otherwise
painful suspense by calling to them by name for favourite airs, and
making them the subjects of many playful allusions. “Rub your elbow
with the rosin, Jim,” shouted a wag to the leader of the band, who
was preparing his violin-bow with that substance; “there was too much
rheumatism in that last tune.” “Your serpent’s got a hoaze, Biffin,”
cried another, to the performer on that wind instrument: “put him
in ’ot flannel when you go home, and don’t bring him out no more o’
nights.” “Cherry ripe!” shouted a chorus of voices. “Music, play
up!” “Polly, put the kettle on!” demanded an opposition chorus--and
faction ran so high between the adverse connoisseurs, that, when
the music struck up, nobody knew what they were playing--while the
gallery, with its darkness visible, and the confusion that reigned
in its obscurest nooks, where the choice spirits had collected,
presented the aspect of an amiable pandemonium, till the rising of
the curtain produced an instantaneous calm.
Fane had entered early, and stood leaning against the wall watching
the entry of the spectators, who gradually filled the house. The
green baize on the seats in the boxes became invisible foot by foot,
as careful fathers and matrons selected good points of view for
themselves and offspring--as a young ladies’ school entered in a
body, and with demureness, relieved by private titters under each
other’s bonnets, ranged themselves in order--as gay bachelors, who
had been chatting with female acquaintances at a distance, rushed to
secure their places. Cheerfulness and expectation prevailed; but the
person among all the audience, whose feelings Fane envied most, was a
sharp-looking little boy, in a red frock with black specks on it, and
a magnificent feathered hat, who came in with his papa and brothers,
and, being placed on his feet in the front row, gazed round him with
intense delight. Fane remembered that the last time he had been in
such a place he was about that age and size, and he knew that the
scene was, to that little boy, the most charming spot on earth; that
he had dreamt of it for two or three previous nights, at least--that
the smell of the footlights was a sweet savour in his nostrils,
the noise in the gallery solemn music in his ears--the whole place
paradise--and that he would watch the progress of the drama with
breathless interest, and most uncriticising faith. There was an elder
brother of his, too, who appeared, probably for the first time in his
life, in Wellington boots and a shirt-collar, to his great pride and
discomfort; and Fane guessed with considerable correctness that this
youth would conceive an ardent and respectful passion for the lady
who did Lydia Languish.
Presently, as the place began to fill, a stout gentleman stood up and
blew his nose like a trumpet, and, after replacing his handkerchief
with much ceremony in his pocket, gazed round him with great
sternness and dignity. He was evidently a man of the first importance
in a civic point of view--his bunch of seals was massive, his hair
was brushed ferociously up from his forehead, and his shirt-collars
appeared to be cutting his ears off. As the noise in the gallery
increased, he lifted up his hand majestically, as if to calm the
tumult; still it went on--he shook his head as if at so many noisy
children, when a voice was heard to shout amid the din, “Hark to old
Bribery and Corruption!” which was the nickname the stout gentleman
was known by among his fellow-townsmen, in consequence of some
valuable electioneering qualities--whereupon he turned away redder
than ever, and stooping down, pretended to whisper to another stout
gentleman, who shook his head, frowned fiercely, and said the rascals
had been getting more impudent every day since the passing of the
Reform Bill.
Fane saw Kitty Fillett steal in, accompanied by her young brother,
and silently seat herself in the pit--a sort of purgatory, or
middle state between the inferno of the gallery, and the paradise
of the boxes. She seemed anxious to avoid notice, but in this she
was disappointed, for she was presently recognised by some vigilant
censors in the gallery. “Won’t Miss Fillett ask a blessing?” cried
one. “No backsliders,” shouted another. “Give her the Old Hundredth,”
said a third, addressing the orchestra--whereat Miss Fillett,
wrapping her shawl nervously about her, looked around, sniffing in
high scorn and defiance.
Presently a little bell rang, and the curtain drew up.
Fane recognised the dragoon directly Captain Absolute entered,
and saw in a moment that the high encomium passed by Mr Payne on
Langley’s powers as an actor was no more than just. He infused great
spirit into the part, and made the points tell admirably. He was
dressed in perfect taste, and looked so handsome and high-bred,
that the entire young ladies’ school fell in love with him, and
two teachers began to pine away from that very night; while Lydia
Languish, a showy-looking girl, acted the love scenes with a degree
of warmth that showed she must either be a mistress of that kind of
acting, or else not acting at all. Sir Anthony, too, was remarkably
well acted by an old man, the manager of the company, who called
himself Mr Cavendish. The costumes were correct, and in excellent
taste; and some of the scenes were admirably painted in a style that
Fane at once ascribed to Langley’s pencil.
The curtain fell at the end of the last act amid great approbation.
Shortly afterwards, old Mr Cavendish made his appearance before the
curtain, to announce that the Infant Roscius was about to appear as
Young Norval, and to request that, however much the audience might
approve his performance, they would refrain from loud applause, as
that would probably put such an inexperienced performer out in his
part.
Again the bell rang, and the curtain ascended creaking. After a pause
Young Norval entered, clad in full Highland costume. He seemed about
four or five years old, and came in with a sort of mock manliness
in his gait, which at once insured him the sympathies of the female
portion of the audience. In fact, Fane heard one young lady near
pronounce him a “darling” before he opened his mouth, while another
expressed a desire to kiss him.
The juvenile tragedian having informed the audience, in a bold lisp,
that his name was Norval, and having mentioned the “G_w_ampian hills”
as the place of his paternal abode, was proceeding to describe his
connection with the warlike lord, when a voice in the pit was heard
to exclaim, “Master Juley! O goodness gracious, Master Juley!”
Young Norval paused with an amazed air--fumbled with his dirk--looked
about him for a moment, and, forgetting his heroic character, began
to cry. Again the voice in the pit was heard. “Master Juley,” it
cried, “come to Kitty!” when the drop-scene suddenly descended, with
great swiftness, and hid him from view.
A great commotion now took place in the house, especially the pit,
where the fainting form of Kitty Fillett was seen passed from hand to
hand on its way to the open air. Fane, on hearing her exclamation,
had quitted the house, and ran round to the stage-door, which he
entered. The first person he encountered was Captain Absolute, who
was standing with his back towards him, but who turned instantly as
Fane called out “Langley.”
“You know who I am then?” he said, advancing. “I saw you among the
audience.”
“I’ve been following you these six weeks,” said Fane, shaking his
hand. “First let me see the child, and I’ll speak to you afterwards.”
At that moment the old manager passed, making for the stage-door,
with Julius kicking and struggling in his arms. Fane, laying one hand
on the shoulder of the old gentleman, lifted the boy from him with
the other. Julius recognised Fane at once, and, calling him by name,
ceased crying.
Mr Holmes (for the manager was no other than that venerable person)
surrendered the boy at once. “Allow me to speak to you one moment,
sir,” he said, drawing Fane aside by the arm. “Doubtless you
intend to restore him to his friends,” said Mr Holmes, in a calm
business-like tone.
“Instantly,” said Fane. “But how came he with you, when he is
believed dead by his friends? You will have to account for this.”
Mr Holmes looked round, to see that no one was within earshot, and,
motioning to Fane to stoop, he whispered in his ear.
“Good God!” said Fane, as Mr Holmes ceased. “I can’t believe it. And
yet, why not? But this may be a slander of yours, to screen yourself,
and gain time to escape.”
“Me!” said Mr Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, and spreading out his
palms. “I shall make no attempt to escape. My account of the matter
is plain, so far as I am concerned. I was requested to take charge
of the young gentleman, and accepted it. Then naturally comes the
question. By whom were you requested? And whether a public answer
will be satisfactory to the young gentleman’s family and friends, you
may judge for yourself.”
“The old scoundrel is right,” muttered Fane. “It cannot be kept too
quiet.” Then he said aloud, “This will be matter for his friends to
decide on; in the mean time, I shall take him to his mother.”
“One word more,” said Mr Holmes. “I have reason to believe it was
intended to restore the young gentleman to his family very shortly.
It was with that view, I imagine, that I received directions to
proceed to this place; though I didn’t know they were in this
neighbourhood.”
Fane, still holding Julius in his arms, now went towards the door.
As he passed Langley, he stopped and drew out his watch. “It is now
ten,” said he. “Can you, in an hour from this, meet me, Langley,
at the hotel in Fore Street?” Langley assented, and Fane left the
theatre.
Miss Fillett having been conveyed by charitable hands into the open
air, had been forthwith surrounded by a circle of her own sex, who
fanned her face, stuffed hartshorn and smelling salts up her nose,
beat her hands, and adopted other established remedies for her
restoration. These had so far recovered her that, on seeing Fane
emerge with Julius, she broke from the sympathetic females around
her, and, snatching the young baronet, cast herself on her knees on
the pavement, and squeezed him in her arms, murmuring hysterically,
and shedding tears over him.
“Where is the hold villain?” said Kitty presently, looking round in
search of Mr Holmes. “It misgive me, the moment I see him, that I
knew his ugly old face. Let me kim to him. I’ll tear his eyes out.”
A word in her ear from Fane, however, induced her to defer her
vengeance for the present; and he prevailed on her to come with
Julius, whom she would not let out of her clutch for an instant, to
the hotel, where a conveyance might be got to convey them to Larches;
and thither they accordingly repaired, attended by a considerable
crowd, who had been solacing themselves by listening outside the
theatre to catch stray sounds and music, and obtaining hasty glimpses
of a green baize screen whenever the door was opened.
A quarter of an hour saw them speeding along in a dog-cart, Fane
driving, and Fillett holding the recovered little baronet in her lap.
He slept there soundly. “Dear soul!” said Fillett, looking down at
him, and covering him with her shawl, “he used to be always a-bed by
eight o’clock. We shan’t get speech of him to-night.”
They stopt at a little distance from the cottage, and a stable-boy
who sat behind took the reins to hold the horse till the return of
Fane, who now proceeded with Fillett and her charge to the house.
There was a light in the drawing-room, and Fane, going softly up, and
standing on a flower-bed underneath, peeped in. He was very glad to
see Orelia seated there reading, alone, and, returning to Fillett,
he took Julius from her, and sent her in to prepare Miss Payne for
the strange news of his recovery.
Fillett went, and Fane heard the murmur of their voices for a minute
or two--when Orelia’s grew louder--the drawing-room door opened, and
forth she came in such tempestuous fashion, that it was fortunate she
ran against nobody in the passage. Seeing Julius asleep in Fane’s
arms as he stood in the porch, and recognising the boy instantly in
spite of his Highland costume, she snatched him eagerly, and covered
him with kisses. “I wonder what Langley would give for one or two of
those,” said Fane to himself, as he followed her to the drawing-room.
In answer to her breathless inquiries, he told how he had found
Julius, and the reasons which appeared to exist for keeping his
abduction as secret as possible. Then they consulted together as to
the best mode of breaking the news to Lady Lee. “I’ll go and tell her
immediate,” said the excited Fillett. “I ain’t afraid to face my lady
now.”
“Stay, my good girl,” said Fane; “we mustn’t be rash. Miss Payne, you
could prepare her better than any one.”
Orelia went away, and, after a short absence, returned to the
drawing-room.
“Hester is asleep,” said she; “I was afraid to wake her.”
“Right,” said Fane. “But what do you think, Miss Payne, of placing
Julius, who doesn’t seem likely to wake till morning, by his mother’s
side?”
“Ho!” said Kitty, “the very thing!--and when my lady wakes, she’ll
think ’tis a dream.”
“Do you know,” said Orelia, “that strikes me as a happy thought of
yours. I’m resolved it shall be done--yes--it shall.” So saying, she
took up the slumbering Julius, and desiring Fillett to accompany her,
conveyed him to her own room; while Fane quitted the house to rejoin
Langley, saying he would return for news in the morning.
Arrived in her chamber, Orelia desired Kitty to undress Julius,
an office she was well accustomed to, and gladly undertook. He
fretted a little, in a sleepy way, at being disturbed, and thrust his
knuckles into his eyes; but the moment the disrobing was accomplished
he relapsed into sound slumbers, with a long-drawn sigh. “Bless you,”
said Kitty, “he’d sleep now if you put him standing on his head on
the floor, the dear!”
Orelia, on her first visit to Hester’s room, had left a light there.
Very softly she now re-entered, bearing her young friend, with his
head against her bosom, his bare legs dangling perpendicularly from
the bend of her arm, and, stealing to the side of the bed, stood
looking at its occupant, while Kitty, with elaborate caution, crept
after. The youthfulness of Hester’s look, as she lay with her face
turned up till her chin approached her upraised shoulder, struck
Orelia--she beheld the Hester of five years before. She stood a
moment gazing at her, figuring to herself the astonishment that
would appear in those eyes when their lids were next raised; then
she motioned to Fillett, who turned down the bed-clothes far enough
to admit Julius, and Orelia, stooping silently down, deposited him
with his head on the pillow near Lady Lee’s. It seemed a matter of
indifference to him what they did with him; he merely rubbed his nose
with his hand, as if something tickled it, made a noise with his lips
as if tasting something, and slept on. Lady Lee, too, slept quietly;
and Orelia, after having once or twice turned to look at them,
withdrew with Kitty. She closed the door softly, then, listening,
thought she heard a noise--re-opened it--it was only Lady Lee turning
in her sleep; she now lay with her face turned to the boy’s, and her
arm across his neck--and Orelia retired to her own room.
Fane found Langley waiting at the hotel door, and, taking his arm,
drew him into a private room. As he had dined early, and imagined his
cousin had probably done so too, he ordered supper forthwith. “We
should be hungry enough before we had half done talking,” said Fane.
“First, while supper is getting ready, I’ll have my say.”
Accordingly he told his cousin how he had got a clue to their
relationship by means of the seal ring at the silversmith’s--of his
late visit to their uncle--of his uncle’s smothered affection for
Langley--of the visit with Miss Betsey to his old apartments--of his
conversation with Mr Payne; which last, however, he recapitulated
only so far as it related to the manner in which Langley had first
provoked his uncle, saying nothing at present about the forgery,
which he wished to hear Langley’s own version of.
His cousin listened eagerly--seemed surprised at the share his ring
had borne in detecting him--smiled at Fane’s mention of Miss Betsey,
and interrupted him to characterise her as a “jolly old woman.” But
the account of the rooms, still preserved in the state he had left
them in, and of his uncle’s nocturnal visits to them, excited deeper
emotion. He rose from his chair, walked about the room, and, when he
resumed his seat, brushed off some moisture from his eyelashes.
“I believe in my soul,” said Langley, “that he once loved me better
than anything on earth. But his last letter to me was so harsh,
so severe in tone, that I imagined I should not have obtained
forgiveness, even had I sought it. To seek it, however, was far from
my thoughts; my uncle’s condemnation of my conduct was mild compared
with my own, and I had resolved, before his letter came, never to
look on his face again till I could do so without shame.”
“You must have played the very deuce,” observed Fane, “to call forth
these feelings in him and yourself. ’Twas play, I suppose, that did
it.”
“Yes,” said Langley, “that finished me; but I had no turn for saving,
and I had, besides, dropt a good deal on a favourite for the Leger.
All my uncle’s allowance went. I asked for more--’twas sent with
some caustic remarks; next time, the remarks were angry, instead of
caustic--then bitter. At last, while playing to win back, I lost
all I had. I sold everything, and was still a hundred pounds short.
This sum I wrote to my uncle for, assuring him ’twas the last time I
should ever trouble him. He evidently didn’t believe me, for, with
the check for a hundred, came the letter I already told you of, the
harshest he had ever written.”
“Well?” said Fane impatiently, seeing him pause.
“I paid my gaming debts, in some of which I suspected foul play,
though it would have been difficult to prove that. All paid, I found
myself with about fifteen shillings, and a suit of clothes, as my
sole possessions, to make a fresh start in the world with. I left
London, making my way on foot towards a seaport; and, while making a
meal of bread and cheese, to be paid for with my last remaining coin,
a recruiting sergeant spoke to me, and I enlisted directly. You know
my career afterwards, till I left the Heronry Lodge.”
“But the last check from my uncle,” said Fane, “I want to hear about
that. To whom did you pay it?”
“To the man I had lost most to, and who had the greatest share in my
ruin,” said Langley. “He came to my lodgings on the day I received
it. I threw it across the table to him, telling him, calmly enough
outwardly, that I was done for, and that he would never hear of me
more, for that my intention was to quit the country that very day.”
“And you saw nothing more of him?” said Fane.
“Never till we met on the day of the review in the Heronry grounds,”
returned Levitt, “when he seemed confused enough at the meeting, as
well he might, for, as I say, Seager had more to do with my ruin than
anybody.”
“Seager!” exclaimed Fane. “I always thought him a horrible rascal.
’Twas to him, then, you transferred your check?”
“Yes,” said Langley; “and, at the same time, I showed him the
letter that accompanied it, that he might see the kind of misery
such proceedings as his lead to. He read it--threw it back to me.
‘All up there,’ said he; ‘the old boy’s done with you--what do you
mean to do?’ I told him I should quit the country that very day. He
approved of this design, and offered to pay my passage to any foreign
port I chose. This I declined; and, meeting the recruiting party, I
abandoned my first intention, and enlisted.”
Fane stood up, leaning his arm against the chimneypiece, his head
upon his hand, deep in thought. “Certainly,” he said to himself,
“Langley is innocent of the forgery--and I think I see who is
guilty--now, to prove it is the point.”
“Was there any one present when you gave the check to Seager?” he
asked.
Levitt paused for a minute to think. “I’m not sure,” he replied,
“’twas so long ago; but I rather think Mounteney was present.”
“And knew the amount of the check?” asked Fane.
“Probably,” returned Levitt--“indeed, I should say, certainly, if he
was present, as I rather fancy he was. But why do you ask?”
Fane, however, waived this question; it could answer no purpose, at
present, to show Langley the suspicion he lay under. Supper appearing
at the moment enabled him to change the subject.
“Your health, Durham,” said Langley; “long may you enjoy my uncle’s
favour, which you deserve better than I did. By Jupiter!” he added,
setting down his glass, “I had almost forgotten the flavour of
champagne. It is long since I tasted it, and ’twill, probably, be yet
longer before I taste it again.”
“You have told me nothing of your plans for the future,” said Durham.
“They are hardly definite enough to talk about; but I’m not used to
despond. My one clear purpose is to leave England. Since I left the
service, I have found how difficult it is to make, unassisted, the
first step in the ascent of life. Now, I consider myself rather a
sharp fellow, Durham, as fellows go. I am willing to turn my hand
to any earthly thing it is capable of, in an honest way; and a man
who, though naturally impatient, yet performs three years’ service
in the lower ranks of the army with credit, has some title to trust
his own temper and perseverance. Yet I’ve been for these--let me
see, how many weeks is it since I sold my last sketch?--three, I
think--hovering on the confines of absolute penury.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Fane. “My dear fellow!”
“Fact,” said Levitt, with a laugh. “So I resolved to try what virtue
there was in a stout arm and a gay heart, in a country like Canada or
Australia. But the passage-money--there was the rub. I’ve been trying
to raise it, as I came along, by selling sketches to booksellers,
but that hardly kept me in bread and cheese. Arriving here, however,
I found a theatrical company in want of a scene-painter. I offered
myself, was approved of, and tolerably well paid; and four or five
mornings ago, when their walking gentleman was sick, I volunteered
to supply his place. Old Cavendish the manager gave me a benefit
to-night, which has put a few pounds in my pocket, and the day after
to-morrow I start for the New World.”
“There is only one little point left unaccounted for in your
narrative,” said Fane, smiling. “Frewenham is not exactly in the road
to any point of embarkation for Canada, or Australia either; and you
have not explained what brought you here.”
He fixed his eyes on Levitt, who, spite of his efforts to look
indifferent, coloured deeply.
“I’m a confounded fool, Durham--I believe that’s undeniable,” he
said. “And yet, I’m not ashamed to say that I came so far out of
my way to take a last look at a woman. Such a woman, Durham--ah,
you must be, as I’ve been, beneath the very heel of fortune, and
habituated to the sense of appearing to others in a false light, to
know the true value of a charming woman’s sympathy. If I had met her
anywhere, or at any period of my life, I should have preferred her to
all the world--but circumstances have made me positively adore her. I
would not present myself again before her for the world--that could
answer no good purpose--but I could not deny myself one last glimpse
of Orelia.”
“Though I smile,” said Fane, “don’t think, my dear fellow, ’tis at
your devotion. On the contrary, I honour you for it. I was merely
paying tribute to my own penetration at having guessed what brought
you here.”
Hereupon there ensued a conversation on the subject of love, its
exacting and engrossing nature, its dreams, its power to excite, its
anxieties, and the astonishing absurdities which even sensible people
commit, without any shame or compunction, under its influence. And as
this was a subject more interesting to the two interlocutors than to
whole-hearted, devil-may-care people like you and me, reader, who are
not yet, heaven be praised, utterly hoodwinked, and have no occasion
to pluck cherry lips and neatly-turned ankles out of our eyes in
order to see clearly--and as, moreover, it has been touched upon by
one or two previous writers, we will merely mention in this place
that the two cousins seemed wonderfully unanimous in their opinions
and feelings, and separated for the night with a very strong regard
for each other.