Thus, at length, was Sir Robert the younger informed of the history
of his inheritance. Thus, also, was it an aggravation of that wounding
recital that, to all appearance, he might have earlier induced Mr.
Creel to it--at a period when he himself was less bound to the conduct
of a responsibility which he now knew he had undertaken upon terms
that seemed to him unnecessarily humiliating, and which he could not
but think he would surely otherwise have declined. For, if any love
had dictated the gift--the new chance to a repentant prodigal--it was
harder than Roman in its expression.
So he thought, smarting under the lash of his father’s prejudgment;
and it was only by and by, in one of those elastic rebounds that were
characteristic of the man and constitutional, that he came to consider
that it _was_ a prejudgment, and that, had his father lived to see it
verified, he might have modified at least the asperity of his
language.
This was little comfort; but it was some.
At first he had had a wild temptation to reject, at the eleventh hour,
a gift which only his ignorance had accepted. It passed, however, in
the reflection that, whatever the pre-history of “Delsrop” (with which
he had no concern), the property was indubitably his at the present
moment to do with as he chose; that he had already incurred, in his
management of it, responsibilities that he could not with honour
repudiate; and that the manliness to assert himself in the world
should be altogether independent of adventitious moral support.
Still, he was something depressed and unhappy; and was become,
perhaps, an essentially graver man than he had been before his
interview with the lawyer.
This interview had taken place on the day after his arrival in London.
On his way to it, he had left a message at the “Golden Cross,”
conveying his respects and his hopes that the travellers had rested
well. But the travellers themselves he had no intention to intrude
himself on, until convinced, if possible, that the nature of his
inheritance offered no bar to his suit with Miss Royston.
Satisfied on this point, he had desired and obtained Mr. Creel’s
consent to his using his new knowledge, if necessary, for the
furtherance of his addresses--but to how great a degree must be left
to his own discretion.
This matter he pondered on his way home; and, pondering it, he must
acknowledge to himself that his position with the lady was scarcely
improved on; for, whatever its extenuation, the fact of the case
remained that he was a distitled beneficiary, whose tenure of his
property must be held to rather justify the contempt that secured it
to him.
So circumstanced, it was a relief to him, upon calling at the “Golden
Cross,” in the dusk of the afternoon, to find that his
fellow-travellers were gone visiting. But Sir David had left a message
that they were to be at the Haymarket Theatre in the evening, to
witness a performance of a new musical piece--in which the celebrated
Mr. Fawcett was to appear in a popular part; together with the
beautiful Miss De Camp, and Mrs. Mountain of Vauxhall Gardens
fame--and that he hoped Mr. Tuke would make it his pleasure to join
their party.
Mr. Tuke _would_ make it his pleasure--or his duty. He felt that
possibly the somewhat dramatic character of the explanation he was
bidden to, would find its appropriate background more in “wings” and
“flats” than in the walls of a drabby inn-parlour; that hautboys and
fiddles--if he could seized an opportunity to speak out under cover of
their harmonious gossip--might play a fitter accompaniment to the tale
of his raptures than would the clank of dishes and bawling of
ubiquitous waiters.
As to that risk he must run of recognition by old associates--why, he
momently invited such a _contretemps_; and he could really not bother
his head with idle speculations as to what he should do in so likely
an eventuality. Truly, the main condition under which he held his
estate made no provision for such accidents, and his sole concern was,
not to escape identification, but to save himself the worry of being
_questioned_ as to the why and wherefore. Moreover, it must be
confessed, he would claim a little malicious pleasure in denying Miss
Angela that knowledge of his real position which would serve as a
better argument to her favour, he shrewdly suspected, than any
personal merit of his could advance; and he was resolved, if possible,
to be taken--if taken he should be--for himself alone.
Therefore, with the determination to that very evening put his
fortunes to the proof, he addressed himself to his careful toilet,
dined daintily and deliberately, at the “Bedford” Coffee-house in
Covent Garden, off “a little lobster, an apricot-puff or so, and some
burnt champagne,” and in due time summoned a coach and was driven to
the theatre.
In the vestibule he was treated to a brief scene of temper that was
like a _lever de rideau_ to usher in the serious business of the
evening. An arrogant-looking lady of a very vain and truculent
expression of countenance, accompanied by a youth some eleven or
twelve years of age, had entered the theatre at the same time as
himself. This boy, a plump-faced, kimbo-eyed youngster, with
well-oiled chestnut curls and a pugnacious mouth, limped slightly as
he walked a little in advance of his companion.
“Tread over, Geordie!” said the latter peevishly, and in a pretty loud
voice.
The boy took no notice; but he flushed up, for there was other company
present. Thereupon the lady called louder, as if to advertise her
authority over him:
“I’ll bid ye listen, ye vicious brat! Tread ye over, as Mr. Lavender
directs.”
Now the boy turned round, with a scarlet face; and cried he--and we
must not hold him excused: “D--n Mr. Lavender for a hav’rel quack!”
At that the lady came after him in a fury; and immediately he flung up
his hand, with a lorgnette in it, and says he: “If ye touch me, I’ll
hwhang this on to the floor!”
“Fie, young gentleman!” said Mr. Tuke, who was standing near. “Is that
your challenge to a lady?”
He got no profit of his question, however; for, while the boy only
stared at him with an angry scowl, the dame spoke up with a fine
contempt of his interference.
“We’re beholden to ye, sir,” said she. “But the Lord Byron will have
his schooling in manners from better than a pouther’d fribble”--and,
catching at the boy’s arm, the two passed on together, making common
cause against the enemy.
That person laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and went in search of his
friends.
There were many empty boxes round the middle tier, and some with
liveried fellows sitting back in them to keep the seats against their
masters’ coming. Once and again a man of them, his attention caught by
some new arrival, would incautiously project his head, with the result
that a storm of nuts and orange-peel, flying from the gallery, would
send it jerking in again, to the huge merriment of the house. Amongst
these “retainers” was one who wore the Dunlone livery of blue and
silver. Mr. Tuke recognized it from where he stood, and a sudden
thought, half-comical, twitched at his risibilities.
“What,” he mused, “if Dunlone is baiting a little trap? He will hardly
want _me_ to walk into it.”
The fiddles had squeaked and the curtain gone up while he waited; and
at this moment he saw the very party he was in search of enter my
lord’s box in company with that gentleman.
Miss Royston came to the front, sparkling and radiant as a
post-prandial Hebe. She glanced round the house (it was a tribute to
her attractiveness that the self-important boy-lord who sat opposite
forgot the play a minute while he plied her with his lorgnette);
caught sight of Mr. Tuke, and, treating that gentleman to a little
cold bow, turned and addressed her witchery to the nobleman behind
her, who was taking his seat with an insolence of clatter and chatter
that greatly disturbed the audience.
Not in the least desiring, under the circumstances, to obtrude himself
on her further notice--and that for many reasons--Tuke retired into
the background and gave his most suave attention to the play. Of this
he was afterwards conscious of having a very hazy recollection; and
only its title, “What a Blunder!” seemed to stick in his memory from a
certain impression it had conveyed of appropriateness with his own
condition of mind. The scene had lain in Valencia--he remembered that,
as also the presence thereon of a dashing English officer, whose
complete _mufti_ of white satin tights, trunk hose slashed with
purple, spencer of violet velvet, diamond shoe-buckles, and a grey
brigand’s hat with three enormous ostrich plumes in it, had presented
such a _coup de théâtre_ as ought to have fully compensated him for
the wasteful hour, he might have been otherwise inclined to think, he
had spent in the house.
Somewhat in a dream, he heard the glorious Miss De Camp expound her
melodious grievances to a baneful chorus of banditti, and withdraw
into a cavern, the hostage of their most _basso-profundo_ cupidity. He
was, indeed, forming his plans the while; and when the curtain fell on
the first act, he made his way determinedly to a certain box--the
prominent occupants of which had had, for the last half-hour, his
particular attention--fully resolved to end one way or the other his
period of suspense.
He tapped on the baize door, and was bidden gruffly by the nobleman to
enter--which he did. My lord and Sir David were risen at the
moment--the former to fetch a bag of oranges out of his laced
surtout--and the baronet came at his friend with a genial greeting and
his finest London manner.
“Where have you been?” quoth he. “My Lord Dunlone would insist to
honour us with his invitation, or I would have acquainted you of our
number, Tuke.”
“Tuke!” exclaimed the viscount. He stood staring, with his hand in the
pocket.
“At your service, sir,” said the other gravely.
Miss Angela was turned, her face observant and a little flushed.
“My name,” said Mr. Tuke quickly, seeing the cub’s perplexity, “can be
a matter of little importance in your lordship’s recollection. But we
have been known to one another in the past, as you will doubtless
remember.”
“Oh! very well, sir. ’Tis no concern of mine, as you observe,” said
the lord; “and it is not every title that is worth the preserving. We
came to a settlement at our last meeting, I believe, and I owe you
small thanks for the terms of it; but I’m cursed if I knew the sale of
your good name was included in the bargain.”
“Nor was it,” said Mr. Tuke.
He took no offence at the other’s insolence; but was quite urbane and
good-humoured in the teeth of it. He even gave the nobleman an
ironical bow, as, withdrawing his hand empty from the pocket, that
fine creature seized Sir David’s arm, and walked the astounded little
man out of the box.
No sooner were they vanished, than the intruder addressed himself to
Miss Royston with the most perfect calmness and respect.
“I return,” said he, “to ‘Delsrop’ to-morrow.”
She vouchsafed him a lifted eyebrow of surprise.
“So soon?” said she. “Then your business is concluded--or postponed?”
“It is concluded.”
“To your satisfaction, I trust?”
“Assuredly. I am satisfied I came on a fool’s errand.”
“Indeed?”
She trifled with her fan. Suddenly she leaned back in the shadow of
the curtains and looked up at him.
“Mr. Tuke,” she said--“were you ever my lord’s tailor?”
He could only stare his astonishment.
“Or his tool or his creature in any way?” she said, gathering
vehemence with speech. “Oh, sir! why should you wonder? And whither
were his innuendoes directed, and what the reason that he disavowed
your claim of friendship?”
“Surely he did not!”
“Not--not? And you pass under an assumed name. Will you deny it?”
“No, madam.”
She gave a great sigh, and turned her attention to the orchestra, that
was beginning to tune up for the second act.
“You will have a cold journey,” she said. “Good-bye!”
He echoed her adieu with a composed gallantry, and stepped from the
box, a man of ice. Humming (horribly out of tune, it must be said) a
fragment of some late-heard melody, he lounged through his tier of the
auditorium, and even paused, before leaving the house, at a point
whence he could obtain a comprehensive view of the assembly. Here,
glancing down into the pit, his gaze was instantly riveted upon the
figure of a man that sat, lolling in an ungainly manner, against the
wooden partition that enclosed the orchestra.
“Now, by Heaven,” muttered the observer, “if you are not my old friend
of the fishing-rod, there is no virtue in the name of Brander!”
As he thus spoke under his breath, the man below, moved by that
telepathic force that is called sympathy, looked up, and catching the
other’s eye, started violently, and immediately shifted his position
so as to present nothing but a back of rusty broadcloth to the
inquisition of the boxes.
“And so my suspicion is confirmed,” thought Tuke; and made his way to
the vestibule.
Walking on the stilts, so as to speak, of a sort of incensed
exaltation, he issued from the theatre to find a wet sleet falling.
The loaded flakes hissed in the torches of the link boys; the whole
pavement resounded with the clink of pattens.
“And here is the appropriate wet blanket,” muttered our friend, “to
the bed of my own making. I will e’en back to broiled bones and a
noggin of punch by the fire.”