SIR CHARLES POMANDER was detained in the country much longer than he
expected.
He was rewarded by a little adventure. As he cantered up to London with
two servants and a post-boy, all riding on horses ordered in relays
beforehand, he came up with an antediluvian coach, stuck fast by the
road-side. Looking into the window, with the humane design of quizzing
the elders who should be there, he saw a young lady of surpassing
beauty. This altered the case; Sir Charles instantly drew bridle and
offered his services.
The lady thanked him, and being an innocent country lady, she opened
those sluices, her eyes, and two tears gently trickled down, while she
told him how eager she was to reach London, and how mortified at this
delay.
The good Sir Charles was touched. He leaped his horse over a hedge,
galloped to a farm-house in sight, and returned with ropes and rustics.
These and Sir Charles's horses soon drew the coach out of some stiffish
clay.
The lady thanked him, and thanked him, and thanked him, with heightening
color and beaming eyes, and he rode away like a hero.
Before he had gone five miles he became thoughtful and
self-dissatisfied, finally his remorse came to a head; he called to him
the keenest of his servants, Hunsdon, and ordered him to ride back past
the carriage, then follow and put up at the same inn, to learn who the
lady was, and whither going; and, this knowledge gained, to ride into
town full speed and tell his master all about it. Sir Charles then
resumed his complacency, and cantered into London that same evening.
Arrived there, he set himself in earnest to cut out his friend with Mrs.
Woffington. He had already caused his correspondence with that lady to
grow warm and more tender, by degrees. Keeping a copy of his last, he
always knew where he was. Cupid's barometer rose by rule; and so he
arrived by just gradations at an artful climax, and made her in terms of
chivalrous affection, an offer of a house, etc., three hundred a year,
etc., not forgetting his heart, etc. He knew that the ladies of the
stage have an ear for flattery and an eye to the main chance.
The good Sir Charles felt sure that, however she might flirt with
Vane or others, she would not forego a position for any disinterested
_penchant._ Still, as he was a close player, he determined to throw
a little cold water on that flame. His plan, like everything truly
scientific, was simple.
“I'll run her down to him, and ridicule him to her,” resolved this
faithful friend and lover dear.
He began with Vane. He found him just leaving his own house. After
the usual compliments, some such dialogue as this took place between
Telemachus and pseudo Mentor:
“I trust you are not really in the power of this actress?”
“You are the slave of a word,” replied Vane. “Would you confound black
and white because both are colors? She is like that sisterhood in
nothing but a name. Even on the stage they have nothing in common. They
are puppets--all attitude and trick; she is all ease, grace and nature.”
“Nature!” cried Pomander. _“Laissez-moi tranquille._ They have
artifice--nature's libel. She has art--nature's counterfeit.”
“Her voice is truth told by music,” cried the poetical lover; “theirs
are jingling instruments of falsehood.”
“They are all instruments,” said the satirist; “she is rather the best
tuned and played.”
“Her face speaks in every lineament; theirs are rouged and wrinkled
masks.”
“Her mask is the best made, mounted, and moved; that is all.”
“She is a fountain of true feeling.”
“No; a pipe that conveys it without spilling or holding a drop.”
“She is an angel of talent, sir.”
“She's a devil of deception.”
“She is a divinity to worship.”
“She's a woman to fight shy of. There is not a woman in London better
known,” continued Sir Charles. “She is a fair actress on the boards, and
a great actress off them; but I can tell you how to add a new charm to
her.”
“Heaven can only do that,” said Vane, hastily.
“Yes, you can. Make her blush. Ask her for the list of your
predecessors.”
Vane winced visibly. He quickened his step, as if to get rid of this
gadfly.
“I spoke to Mr. Quin,” said he, at last; “and he, who has no prejudice,
paid her character the highest compliment.”
“You have paid it the highest it admits,” was the reply. “You have let
it deceive you.” Sir Charles continued in a more solemn tone: “Pray be
warned. Why is it every man of intellect loves an actress once in his
life, and no man of sense ever did it twice?”
This last hit, coming after the carte and tierce we have described,
brought an expression of pain to Mr. Vane's face. He said abruptly:
“Excuse me, I desire to be alone for half an hour.”
Machiavel bowed; and, instead of taking offense, said, in a tone full of
feeling: “Ah! I give you pain! But you are right; think it calmly over a
while, and you will see I advise you well.”
He then made for the theater, and the weakish personage he had been
playing upon walked down to the river, almost ran, in fact. He wanted to
be out of sight.
He got behind some houses, and then his face seemed literally to break
loose from confinement; so anxious, sad, fearful and bitter were the
expressions that coursed each other over that handsome countenance.
What is the meaning of these hot and cold fits? It is not Sir Charles
who has the power to shake Mr. Vane so without some help from within.
_There is something wrong about this man!_